


Taking the Stairs

by Boom



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Crack, EXCEPT WHEN IT IS, Gen, I made Wade a kid, Kinda Kid Fic, Language, MCU Phase One compliant, Not so much for Phase Two, POV Multiple, also, and poor decisions, and probably feels because you know, crap, funny and not so funny, my fic my rules, no it is not the wade you know, now with beta!, phlint - Freeform, this is not as fluffy as it sounds, yes it was intentional
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-06
Updated: 2016-11-29
Packaged: 2017-12-14 02:53:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 28
Words: 89,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/831867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Boom/pseuds/Boom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(Formerly Grow Up)</p><p>Raising a child on your own is difficult. Fining out you have a child when they're past the diaper stage is helpful, but no less distressing. Being a full time working father and making sure your kid eat's his vegetables is nearly a nightmare. And giving your kid a nice normal life while running from a secret organization that's trying to recruit/kill you is just a disaster.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Age: 4 (3/4)

**Author's Note:**

> Hey cool story, very wow, much sleep deprivation, some funny, ooooo, fance.

It took Clint a moment to realize the pounding wasn't only coming from his head, and even then he didn't attribute it right away to someone at the door. Instead he laid in his stiff motel bed, staring at the crack in the ceiling until the thumps stopped and a familiar voice started yelling, "I know you're in there Clint Barton! Open the damn door already!"

Clint blinked. That was not the voice he expected.

He slid from the bed, pulling the knife from under his pillow and stalked to the door, looking through the peephole. The face was familiar, even after four years, and Clint cursed before opening it a fraction, "Nadia Wilson," he said, holding the knife out of sight, "How the hell did you find me?"

"You're brother told me you was holed up here," She snarled, barging into the small room, "I need to talk to you."

"Barney?" Clint's face screwed up as he shut the door and set the knife on the small table by the window, "How does he know where I am? Who's this?"

The little boy stepped behind his mother once more, a thumb in his mouth and his little fingers curled into the fabric of Nadia's skinny jeans. His hair was almost platinum blonde, his eyes huge and expressive. He also had a birthmark, running from his hair line to below the collar of his stretched out Thomas the Tank Engine t-shirt. The scarring took up about half his face and Clint couldn't help thinking of fire when he saw it. of anger, and one too many hits from a belt.

"That's why I wanna talk to you," Nadia snapped, bringing her hands to her hips and Clint's attention back to her eyes, "We need help."

"Who needs help?" Clint asked, befuddled, "You need help?"

"Yes, I need help," She glared hard at him, as if they were still 17 and in the circus. As if she still had any hold on Clint anymore. And truthfully, she kinda did. A little. But Clint had just been released from his first tour in Afghanistan and truthfully he did not need a would-be belly dancer/fire eater bossing him around.

"Seriously?" He asked (see: whined), rubbing his head to alleviate the amazing head ache building behind his eyes, "I can't help you, Nadi. I just got out--"

"You were in jail?" She nearly squawked, standing a little more in front of her son (the reason she was there, Clint reminded himself), finally looking like maybe she jumped the gun on all this "barging in on your semi-exes" thing.

"What? No! Jesus! The army!" Clint nearly yelled, looking at Nadia like she was bat-shit (which she was. She totally was. He had the scars to prove it).

"Oh thank God," She put a hand on her chest and Clint rubbed his eyes with his palms, hoping to get rid of at least some of the pressure.

"Why are you here, Nadi?" He finally asked, sitting heavily on the foot of the bed.

"We need money," she said, crossing her arms.

Clint was not surprised, "I don't have any."

"Not even for your own damn kid?"

Clint looked at her in surprise, then down at the kid and back to her, "Him?"

"Yes, him!" She said shrilly, throwing her hands in the air, "God when did you get so stupid, Barton?"

"That's not my kid," Clint snapped, on his feet and in her face, "How dare you--"

"Wade how old are you?" Nadia looked pissed, but kept her eyes on Clint, daring him to get closer. There was silence for a moment, until Nadia looked down and shook the kid's arm to get his attention, "Wade," She barked, "Answer me. How old are you?"

"Four," Was his weak, mumbled response.

"And how much?" She pressed.

"Three quarters," the kid was mumbling into his mother's leg, but Clint still heard his answer.

"That makes no sense," Clint scoffed, "If he's mine then--"

"We were together for a year before you skipped," Nadia snapped, sounding hurt, "You ever wonder why I got distant?"

"Yeah," Clint threw his arms in the air now, "You were bangin' the strong man!"

"I was pregnant!" She nearly screamed, a tear falling down her cheek, "I knew you were leaving so I didn't want you to know!"

"No one knew I was leaving," Clint dismissed.

"Everyone knew you were leaving!" She shouted, taking an aggressive step towards him, "God Clint, you are a real idiot you know that? Everyone knew as soon as Barney left his little brother Clint would be right behind him!"

"I didn't leave for Barney."

"Yeah well you sure as hell didn't stay for me!" And with that she crumpled onto the bed, sobbing into her hands. Clint was frozen, not sure what to do next. The kid, Wade, just held onto his mother's sleeve and watched. Then he caught Clint's eye and rolled his own before wrapping his arms around his mother's shoulders. Clint honest the God blinked. Five year olds don't know how to roll there eyes.

Do they?

Nadia snuffled a little while longer, taking her time cleaning off her face, and smudging her mascara horribly in the process.

"This was a stupid idea," She mumbled, straightening Wade's shirt absently, as if she were talking to herself, "Stupid. Stupid."

She jerked to her feet and stumbled to the door, dragging Wade behind her.

"Hey, whoa, where are you going?" Clint blocked her way.

"Don't fucking worry about it," She snarled, "We'll find somewhere else to stay tonight."

"What are you gonna do, sleep in you're car?" Clint couldn't fulling keep the scathing note from his voice, making Nadia stiffen. He knew this routine. Hell, he'd pulled it a few times to get a warm bed and some food. But he couldn't stop himself, "You can stay here tonight."

Nadia sneered, "I don't need your pity."

"It's not for you," Clint said, "It's for him."

"Him?" Nadia looked down at her son, who looked confused himself. She glared up at Clint, "You a pedophile now? You gonna hurt my son?"

"No! Are you kidding me?" Clint took an unintentional step back, "God no! He just doesn't deserve to sleep in a car! What the hell is wrong with you?"

"I grew up with the Swordsman," She snarled, getting right in Clint's face.

He didn't back down this time, "So did I."

Nadia jerked like she'd been smack. Clint took a moment to get himself under control before he spoke again.

"Go get your stuff. You can have the bed."

 

+_+

 

Clint found two jobs, one at a shipment plant, and the other night stocking at a grocery store. It wasn't glamorous, but it paid alright. Clint had two stipulations with Nadia and Wade staying with him: one, Wade had to go to school (pre-shool, whatever), and two, Nadia had to get a job. The first was easy; the kid took to school (pre-school) like a fish to water. He was active, charismatic, and an instant favorite with the teachers. Clint never actually saw Nadia fill out applications, but she started bringing in money, so Clint decided not to ask, at least at first. When she came home with a black eye he tried to intervene, but she just shot him down. When she came in with a collar of bruising around her neck, Clint tried to get her to tell him what she was doing. When she came home with a lip, he'd had enough.

"What the hell are you doing to yourself?" He shouted, his hands in fists. She punched him instead of answering and didn't come back for a week. Clint found himself more and more taking care of Wade, helping him with his homework (seriously? who gives a pre-schooler homework? Sure it was just coloring, but really...), getting him in bed before his shift at the store, and usually finding Nadia curled around her son when he got off work, holding the boy to her chest. Then he'd get out of the shower 20 minutes later and she'd be gone. The money Nadia had been bringing in stopped coming and Clint started receiving eviction notices from the motel. It was a pattern that continued for a month or so, until Clint got a call half way through his shift at the plant.

"Clint?" Wade's voice was hesitant on the line and Clint couldn't help the little flip his stomach did.

"Yeah, buddy, it's me. Is everything okay?"

"Can you come home?"

Now his stomach dropped, but Clint tried to keep his voice calm, "What's going on?"

"Mom's stuff is gone," Wade said, trying to choke back something, "And there's a hole in the window."

"Okay, buddy," Clint motioned to his manager across the floor. The prick didn't even look at him, "Okay, I'll be back soon, alright? Don't do anything until I get there."

"Okay."

Clint almost threw the phone as he sprinted to his junker. When he pulled up, Wade was sitting on the curb with his backpack and stuffed bear, looking miserable. The hole in the window, looked less like an errant baseball and more like an intentional trashcan. Clint's theory was only solidified by the amount of refuse scattered around the room. Clint picked his way through the wreckage with wade waiting by the open door, watching him.

"So do we leave now?" He asked.

Clint looked at the kid, then the room, taking in the damage. Even with everything he'd made so far, Clint wasn't sure he'd be able to cover the cost of the window. Add in the trash, the ruined beds, and the late room payments and there was no way he was getting out of all this. Finally he looked back at Wade, who just waited expectantly.

"Yeah, buddy," Clint said, carding a hand through his hair, "We're leaving."


	2. Three Weeks Later

Clint was a little uncomfortable with how easily Wade was willing to pick up and leave his mother. He was also surprised when he didn't throw a fit when Clint told him he had to leave his school and new friends. He ate everything you put in front of him, he went to sleep as soon as his head hit a pillow (or a car seat), and he was so spatially aware it kinda freaked Clint out. No child should be this well behaved. It was unnatural. It made him wonder what had the kid growing up so fast. The only thing he did do that was even remotely kid-ish was ask questions. Generally they were simple, like where they were going or what was for dinner, but other times it was a bit more difficult.

"Where's my mom?"

Clint glanced at Wade in the backseat, sitting on a low box because Clint couldn't afford a car seat yet. He needed to get a job.

"I don't know buddy," He replied, moving his eyes back to the road.

"Is she coming back?" The boy pressed, staring out the window.

"I don't know that either," Clint made a conscious effort to relax his hands. He'd spent the last three weeks turning over every rock in town looking for Nadia, but to no avail. The woman was gone. It made Clint furious when he thought about it, even in passing. You don't leave your kid with a stranger, no matter how screwed up your situation. He thought about the orphanage, then the circus, how hard it had all been, how he'd always had Barney at least to rely on. He thought about reenlisting, but dismissed it. Wade was an orphan now, he didn't want the last person the kid knew to dump him too. He thought about Barney, but dismissed that just as quickly. His older brother would probably use the kid the same way his mother had. No, he was keeping Wade. That was just the end of it.

"Do you miss her?" Clint asked carefully.

Wade shrugged, fiddling with his bear's ears.

"Has she done this before?"

"Not for this long," Wade mumbled. Clint didn't know what to do with that.

"Who did you stay with before?" he asked.

"Baba," Wade shrugged, "But she left too."

Clint's lips thinned. The ride was silent for the next hour until Wade said he was hungry and Clint pulled into a truck stop. He waited for the kid to go to the bathroom, then bought him some chicken nuggets and they were on their way once more.

"Where are we going now?" He asked, pretending to feed his bear before taking a bite himself.

"A friend of mine mentioned some work on the east coast," Clint explained, merging back on the highway, "We're going to check it out, okay?"

"Okay," Wade quieted, kicking his legs back and forth as he ate.

"Okay," Clint said, more to himself. In truth he was meeting up with an old army buddy who'd just gotten back from this fourth tour and been discharged. Clint remembered the guy being a few cards short of a full deck, but not dangerous, necessarily. Regardless, the guy had mentioned something about work, a two man job outside Boston, so Clint figured it was worth a shot. 

He hadn't mentioned Wade, and he wasn't going to if he could help it.

Four hours later it was dark, Wade asleep in the back seat as Clint pulled into the strip center his buddy had told him to go to and parked, looking around. Five minutes later a blue truck pulled in, followed by a very nice looking SUV. Clint's stomach twisted in a negative way. Maybe he should rethink the whole "not dangerous" thing. He took a look into the back seat, Wade's head was leaning against his bear, out of view unless you walked to his side of the car, then got out, locking the door behind him. His buddy stepped out of the blue truck, his smile too big and his eyes shining. The fucker was high. Of course he was. Clint is such an idiot sometimes.

He cursed under his breath as the guy came towards him, his arms spread wide, "Barton! You're looking good man!"

"Miles," Clint said, fending off his would be friend, "The hell's going on here?"

"Oh," Miles looked over his shoulder to the sharp dressed man and his equally sharp dressed body guards, all about twice Clint's size, "Yeah, that's Romo. I, uh, owe him money."

"Are you serious?" Clint hissed, "Dude I can't get wrapped up in this!"

"No no no, wait, calm down, let me explain," Miles set a reassuring (yeah right) hand on Clint's shoulder, "All you're gonna do is stand here and look pretty, alright? Just. Just do that resting face thing you do and stand there."

"Oh you have got to be kidding me..." Clint rolled his eyes, but Miles persisted, "No seriously, just give me, like, five minutes. Then they'll drive away and you can get in your car and you'll never see me again, okay?"

Clint's heart sank, "You said there'd be a take from this, Miles."

Miles' expression dropped, panic seeping into his eyes, "Look man, I'm sorry I lied, I just really need some help right now okay? And I will. I'll get you some money for helping me out somehow, I just need this one little favor..."

"Jesus Christ, man."

"Are we interrupting you, gentlemen?" Romo asked, standing a slight distance off. Clint glared at him, then Miles.

"Fine," He said through gritted teeth, "You do this, you get in your truck, and you lose my number. Got it?"

"Yes, yeah absolutely," Miles shook his head vigorously, "Just let me--"

"Whatever, just do it," Clint snapped, crossing his arms in a way he'd been told was actually quite intimidating. Miles scampered back to Romo, talking to him quietly while Clint watched, feeling like an idiot. He should've known something like this would happen. He hadn't heard from Miles or honestly any of the other guys in months, what the hell made him think one of them would call out of the blue with a freaking job when he actually needed it?

"Aaron here says you're a sniper," Romo called over Miles' shoulder. Miles turned in an instant, his face pail.

Clint just nodded jerkily, not liking where this was going.

"Mind showing us?" Romo took a modified glock from one of his goons as another grabbed Miles around the neck. Clint stood up straighter, eyes narrowing. Romo made his way over, checking the extended clip and silencer before holding out to Clint, "How are you at hitting a moving target?"

There was a strangled sound, but Clint didn't look at Miles. He kept his eyes on Romo's instead and said, "Impeccable."

Romo's smile grew predatory as Clint took the gun, checking it over himself.

"Sorry Mr. Miles," Romo said, turning back to his goons and their newest prisoner, "It seems your contract has expired."

Clint raised the glock and the goon released Miles. He stared at Clint for all of a second, fear and betrayal screaming through his eyes, then he ran. Clint aimed at Mile's head and waited. And waited.

And waited.

"The fuck are you doing?" Romo shouted as Miles turned the corner and disappeared. Clint lowered the gun with a shrug, praying the stupid idiot would keep running. A fist bashed into the side of his head, sending him to the ground before he could register what was happening. Clint blinked through the haze, his head pounding as he looked up at Romo towering over him.

"You're gonna regret that," Romo snarled, his eyes blazing, "Get him up."

And yeah, Clint remembered this bit. He was dragged to his feet, relieved of the glock, and punched, hard, in the gut. He doubled over, losing his breath, but was brought back up with a punch to the face. Over all the beating lasted for only five minutes, which Clint was incredibly thankful for, before he was forced to his knees. One eye was already swelling and he was having a hard time breathing out of his nose. Then he felt the gun.

"Pity about this," Romo said, conversationally, "But you know... Business is business."

"Clint?" Every head shot around to Wade, staring out the car window, eyes terrified, his bear clutched to his chest. Clint's stomach dropped.

"Who the fuck--"

Clint smacked the gun off his head and launched himself at Romo's chin. The gangster wannabe cried out when Clint disarmed him, breaking his thumb in the process. The goon's moved, but Clint was faster. He shot them without thinking, each crumbling with a scream before he spun back to Romo, the gun right on his forehead.

"Run," Clint said. Romo didn't even hesitate. He scrambled away, bolting for the SUV, but Clint was no longer paying attention. The goon's weren't dead, but they weren't going anywhere either. Clint ignored them too, instead moving around to Wade's side of the car and wrenching open the door. Wade shrank away from him, his eyes huge and Clint wondered what he must look like.

"It's okay," He said gently, holding out his hand, "I'm not gonna hurt you, I promise. But we need to go, alright? We can' stay here."

Wade hesitated a moment longer, then reached out to Clint, keeping his head bent. Clint's heart broke a little, but he tamped it down, grabbing the boy up and snagging their bags before closing up the car. Wade was silent as Clint piled everything in Miles' truck and buckled the little boy in. A moment later they were back on the road, this time heading straight for the city.

Wade didn't speak until they got to the airport.


	3. Age: 6, September 19th

"Clint!"

It was all the warning he got before a squirming five year old landed hard on his chest. Clint let out a loud, "OOF!" and rolled, spilling Wade onto the bed beside him.

"Dude!" Clint whined, rolling back over, "Warn a guy before you jump him."

"I did!" Wade cried, climbing over Clint to get to his face, "C'mon is time to get up!"

"Five more minutes," Clint grumbled, pressing his face in the pillow. He'd only gotten in five hours ago. Five hours does not a functioning Clint make. In fact he could probably use a week of sleep, but he'll be happy with a few more hours.

"No!" Wade said petulantly.

Clint blinked one eye owlishly at the little boy, "No?"

"No," Wade said again, crossing his arms like it was anything less than adorable, "You said it was my day and I could do anything."

"Your day?" Then it dawned on him, "Your birthday!"

Wade gave him a "no duh" look and said, "Welcome to the conversation."

And Clint wasn't sure where the kid picked that up, but it was probably the cutest thing he'd ever heard a five-- uh, six year old say and he was pretty sure he'd never get tired of it.

"Well then," Clint said, swinging his legs over to sit up and rub his eyes as Wade clambered into his lap, "What should we do today?"

"I want a dragon," Wade announced, "They come in eggs."

Clint couldn't fully force back his smile at that, "You think they sell those at the market?"

Wade shrugged, picking at his bear's ear, "Baba said she had a dragon once."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah. He ate potatoes a lot."

"Not villages?"

Wade wrinkled his nose, "No! She said he was a veggie... a, um... a veg--"

"A vegetarian?" Clint helped and Wade nodded furiously, "Yeah, that."

"Sounds healthy," Clint mused, resting his chin on the boy's head, "Are you sure you want one though? They can get pretty big."

"Well..." Wade looked around the tiny apartment Clint had rented for them, "Not a big one. A small one."

"Alright, we'll see what happens," Clint assented, "Let me get ready and we'll head out."

"Okay," Wade hopped from his lap and trundled down the short hall to the kitchen, carrying his bear by the ear. Clint closed the door behind him to face the room with a sigh, scrubbing a hand through his hair. The kid was six. Almost a year and a half ago he wouldn't even look at Clint, now he was a terror with no boundaries. He thought about those early months as he took a hasty shower and changed, especially this time exactly last year. They'd been in Dublin, roaming the streets on a partly cloudy day. Wade had been more miserable than usual and Clint was thinking of anything that could cheer him up. He'd been asking the little boy if he'd like to see a movie when the dam broke. Wade wailed like he was being kidnapped and Clint...

Well, Clint panicked. He wasn't proud of that moment, but he didn't know what else to do.

He scooped Wade into his arms and took off down the street, winding his way back to their little hotel, locking the door and setting Wade on the rough sheets to cry. He didn't stop for three hours, making himself sick in the process. Clint cleaned the little boy up, putting him in his favorite pajamas (an old Ratt t-shirt from god knows where), and asked him what happened. That's how he learned Wade's birthday. It's also how he learned the kid had never seen a movie before.

"Cli-int!" Wade thumped on the bedroom door, "Come on!"

"Alright, alright," Clint opened the door with a smirk, "You ready?"

"Yes!"

"Well, let's go."

 

+_+

 

"Okay, where are we?"

"Clint, I don't wanna!"

"Naw, buddy, that's not the deal," Clint said sternly, "Now where are we?"

"Morocco," Wade replied sullenly, picking at his kebab.

"Right," Clint smiled, "Do you remember what city?"

"Rabbit?" Wade asked.

"Close, Rabat. And where do you go if there's trouble?"

"The embassy."

"Which embassy?"

"The America!" Wade replied, starting to fuss. "The U.S.!"

"Okay, okay," Clint grabbed the kid's hand before he could throw his food, "Last question, I promise. What do you tell the person at the front desk of the embassy?"

"I'm a American citizen and I wanna go home."

"And?"

Wade huffed, throwing his arms down before picking at his food again, "Don't turn around, don't wait."

"Exactly," Clint gave the little boy a reassuring squeeze on the shoulder as they set off down the street once more. It was an exercise in futility, really. Clint knew the easiest way to get to him was through the boy, which was why he took jobs so far away from where he had them staying. It didn't stop the fear though. Because one day, someone would find out about Wade, and not even knowing where to run would help the kid. Clint pushed all those thoughts aside. No sense worrying yet.

"So do you want to go to the beach, or walk around some more?"

"I wanna find a dragon egg!" Wade brightened, hopping up and down imploringly. Clint huffed and they were off, asking each vendor if they sold dragons, Clint gesturing awkwardly to make up for his half-assed Arabic and Wade laughing at the confused looks they received. They wound their way through the busy streets, picking up food and small trinkets until the sun started to set. Wade was tired but demanded on last stall before they went home. He gestured to a silk vendor and Clint dutifully began talking to the man when he realized Wade was wondering off.

Clint's heart stopped for all of three seconds before he jogged up to the boy, "Whoa, whao, whao, whao, whao," he said, keeping his voice calm as he swung the kid into his arms, "What's the rush little man? You sick of me already? Whatcha got there?"

Wade held out a little blue egg, a tiny jeweled dragon climbing up the side. Clint went cold as he looked at it, "Where'd you get that?"

"He gave it to me," Wade pointed down the lane to a man in a sharp grey suit and mirrored aviators. The man nodded once, turned into the thickening crowd, and disappeared. Clint turned on his heal and did the same. They moved with the afternoon rush until they were back at their little apartment. Clint checked everything over twice thoroughly, packed it all, grabbed Wade's hand and vanished into the city.

All they left were four crushed bugs and one destroyed tracker.

Clink let Wade keep the egg.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So the date is made up. If anyone has an actual birthday for Wadey let meh know (hopefully with a source, that would be epic, but not necessary).
> 
> Unless it's that wiki sight with Jensen Ackles as Deadpool.
> 
> I can't take that one seriously.


	4. Age: 8, Aunt Tasha

Clint Barton is an assassin. He's not ashamed of it, after all people say do what you know and as far as he's aware, there are no circuses hiring in the Eastern Block. So he kills people. He keeps Wade pretty well separated from his work, living far away from the jobs he took and never staying longer than necessary. Which isn't to say there were never any problems.

"Dad?" Wade rubbed his face, squinting into the living room.

"I'm here, buddy," Clint said, trying to shift into a more comfortable position on the tiny couch, "Do me a favor and grab the kit please? And a towel."

Wade scampered back into the single bedroom and returned with a small medical kit. He sat on the floor as he handed the box to Clint, his eyes wide.

"What happened?" He asked, staring at the five inch gash on Clint's side. Clint shrugged, then instantly regretted the movement, "Nothing too serious. Towel please?"

"Oh," Wade disappeared long enough for Clint to pull out a suture kit and by far his worst nemesis to date. When Wade returned, Clint was hissing profanities as the thin stream of peroxide washed out the wound.

"Don't repeat any of that," Clint said through gritted teeth. Wade just rolled his eyes, handing over the towel. The kid looked a little ashen.

"Go lay back down," Clint motioned with the rough clothe before dabbing around his wound, "I'll be fine. Thank you for helping."

Wade rolled his eyes again, plopping down between the couch and the little coffee table that made up their living room. Clint raised and eyebrow, but Wade just stared back, waiting to be useful.

"Fine," Clint griped as Wade smiled his triumph, "Grab the iodine and that swab right there. Take this."

They traded bottles before Clint slowly worked the noxious yellow liquid around the cut and pulled the needle from the suture kit. He eyed Wade, who's color wasn't improving, "You can go at any point, buddy."

"No, I wanna help," The kid insisted, straightening his spine and trying for attentive.

"You're not gonna like this next part," Clint warned.

Wade gave him his best unimpressed look, "I can handle it."

Clint let out a long breath, "Okay, hop up."

"Where?" Wade climbed to his feet.

"Go behind the couch," Clint instructed, "I need you to lean over and hold the skin closed."

"Really?" Wade went from grey to green, his birthmark losing some of it's pallor.

"Yes really," Clint smirked, "Go wash your hands first."

Wade nearly tripped to the sink, the water rushed on for all of ten seconds then the boy was back, wiping his hands on a paper towel before throwing it over his shoulder. His color was a little better, so Clint figured he had less of a chance of passing out now.

"Shouldn't I have gloves or something?" Wade asked as Clint shifted to a better position.

"Probably," Clint replied, "Push those sides together."

Clint grunted with the first plunge of the needle, but Wade didn't flinch, keeping his hands steady as his father meticulously sewed himself shut. The task was slow going at such an awkward angle and they had to stop for a moment when the bleeding started again, but finally it was done. Wade quickly let go when Clint pulled away, his face set grimly.

"I wanna learn how to do that."

Clint blinked as he placed a gauze patch over the stitches, looking at the boy, then the mess they'd created and back, "What? This?"

"For when you get hurt again," Wade explained.

"Buddy--"

"I wanna help," He insisted harshly, "I'm gonna be nine in seven months!"

"Exactly," Clint said sternly, "You're eight years old, little man--"

"But I can help!" Wade started to sound desperate, "I helped you now! I can do dishes and laundry and--"

"Wade, you are too young," Clint snapped.

"No I'm not!" The boy was nearly yelling now, "Dad--"

"Enough!" Clint shouted, making Wade jump, "You are eight years old. You are not learning how to sow someone back together."

"When did you learn?" Wade demanded, showing much more steal than Clint gave him credit for.

"In the army," He replied, evenly, "When I was 19. Not eight. Now go to bed."

"But--"

"Now," Clint's voice brooked no argument. Wade's mouth tensed and Clint waited for the backlash, but it never came. Instead Wade turned on his heal and marched into the bedroom, slamming the door behind him. Clint sighed, rubbing his eyes. He knew he was being a hypocrite. Letting Wade help then telling him he wasn't aloud to learn was... Well it was a dick move. It wasn't even smart. Having the kid know basic medical techniques could actually be quite useful. His fingers were smaller, more nimble. He could've probably patched Clint up better than he'd done himself, but...

But he was a kid. He was eight years old and helping his father sew himself back together. _His father._ Wade should be in third grade making baking soda and vinegar bottle rockets, not learning Polish watching some kids show in the middle of Siedlce. And definitely not patching bullet wounds. Clint sank back onto the couch, ignoring the ruined towel under him and closing his eyes. He had to get out. He had to get Wade somewhere normal. Settle him down with a house and a yard...

Clint snorted contemptuously at the idea. Him. And Wade. With a yard. He snorted again, something hollow cracking inside his chest. Dreams are for wimps, Barney used to say, Either you take what you want, or you sit around with a thumb up your ass for the rest of your life.

Sure Barney had been drunk when he'd said that, but it didn't make it any less true.

Clint was tired. He was 25 with a sarcastic runt and 18 stitches. He needed a drink, a shower, and sleep, but not necessarily in that order. He wanted to explain to that same sarcastic runt why he wasn't allowed to dive into the world he was unintentionally being raised in. And there in lay the problem. Clint hadn't been smart. He should've moved out west, gotten a job in construction or something and had a normal life, but instead he'd gone with his gut and fled like some fugitive. He hadn't been one then and now he definitely was.

He thought about the man in the grey suit and shivered. Two years and that memory still scared him. That they could've been caught, Clint thrown in a hole and Wade sent into the system... The man had been right there. And yet he'd let them go.

We're watching you.

They couldn't've said it clearer if they'd shouted it across the square. Clint hadn't seen anything close to that man since. But it didn't stop him from worrying.

He climbed to his feet, clearing the coffee table and trashing the towel before washing his hands, wincing slightly as he reached too far. This was gonna send him out of commission for a while, and he hated missing the income, but he had a bit stored up so they should be fine for a little while. He heard the floor creak and turned to see Wade, his head bowed, standing just outside the kitchen door.

"Everything okay, buddy?" Clint asked, wiping his hands on a dish towel.

"Got thirsty," Wade grumbled, not looking from the floor. Clint reached up with his undamaged side and filled a glass from the tap, handing it to the little boy (who actually wasn't all that little anymore).

"Thank you," It was grudging, but Clint would take it.

"You're welcome," he replied, "Hey."

Clint grabbed his sleep shirt from behind and pulled him close, "I'm sorry for yelling."

Wade squirmed then settled, still not looking at Clint, "It's okay."

"Okay," Clint kissed the top of his head, "We'll talk in the morning."

"Fine," Wade conceded and Clint let him go. Watching his son walk back to the room, he figured maybe he wasn't the worst father in the world.

 

+_+

 

It was two AM when Clint made it back to the apartment. He climbed the fire escape, grunting when he reached for the next railing. Definitely cracked ribs then. How nice. And only a few days after he'd taken out the stitches. He gritted his teeth, blinking blood out of his eye as he levered himself over to the window and slid it open, barely making a sound on the carpet until he saw it.

The woman he'd worked with. The woman his latest clients had paired him with to take down an entire cartel. The woman who'd disappeared as soon as they'd entered the warehouse, leaving Clint to fight his way out alone. Natasha Romanov. The Black Widow. Was standing over his bed.

Was standing over Wade.

As soon as Clint saw the syringe, panic and instinct took over. He pulled one of his last arrows, aiming it for her eye, but she was already backing away, holding up both hands and dropping the syringe.

"He's unharmed," She said, keeping her voice low and even, "I didn't touch him."

"What are you doing here?" He demanded, keeping his bow level, eyes flicking to his still sleeping son.

"I was told to kill you."

Clint snapped back to the woman, but her gaze was steady.

"Why?" He gritted, fear chasing rage in his chest.

"I didn't ask why," Romanov replied, "I was just told to kill you if you survived the warehouse. That was all. I didn't know--"

She stopped abruptly, steadily not looking at the bed, "I didn't know you had a child."

"And now?" Clint asked.

Romanov didn't answer. Her jaw clenched minutely, like she was thinking something through before she said, "You need to leave."

"You first."

"No," The woman seamed to gather herself, "You need to leave. Now."

Clint paused, confused, "What?"

Romanov's eyes narrowed in a surprisingly familiar reaction.

"No I mean," Clint shrugged, keeping the arrow trained on her eye, "Why. Why are you letting us go?"

"How have you survived this long while being this dense?" Romanov asked honestly, quirking an eyebrow.

"Charm and a good exit strategy," Clint replied giving her a shit eating grin. The covers twitched, sending both assassin's attention to the bed. Clint was there first, his bow already down, figuring if the Black Widow hadn't killed him yet she wasn't going to. He smiled as his son came around, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

"Hey, buddy," He said softly.

Wade blinked blearily, "You've got blood on your face."

Clint had totally forgotten what he must look like, instead he said, "What, not a good look for me?"

"Who's she?"

Clint looked over his shoulder at Romanov, still standing stoically where she'd dropped the syringe, her arms now crossed.

"That's Natasha," He said, watching as her eyes narrowed further, "She's gonna help us get out of the city."

"Now?" Wade groaned dejectedly.

"Right now," Clint confirmed, bouncing off the bed, "Let's move, kiddo."

Wade groaned again, but rolled off the bed and on his feet. He shuffled to Romanov, barely giving her a glance as he said, "Excuse me."

The woman stepped to the side, seeming a little uncomfortable as she watched the boy close the bathroom door behind him.

"Careful," Clint smiled, making Romanov turn, "He grows on you."

"I can't get you out of the city," She said bluntly.

Clint stood from putting his bow away, "Then get us to the edge. You'll never see us again and we'll never see you again."

Romanov seemed to have a hard time with that, but nodded jerkily all the same. They were silent for a while, Clint packing up their few belongings (setting Wade's bear at the top of his backpack) until Romanov blurted, "What are you doing?"

Clint looked up questioningly, "Packing."

"No," And she was agitated now, shifting her weight almost imperceptibly, "What are you doing with a child?"

"Taking care of him," Clint said.

"People like us don't have children," She sounded almost angry. Wade opened the door at that moment, sending Romanov a step back, watching him. Wade didn't even acknowledge her, just handed the dobs kit to Clint and went to search the rest of the apartment for anything left behind.

"I'm all he has," Clint said quietly, pulling his bow case on his back, "And this is all he's known. I'm not gonna be absent from his life just because mine is hard."

"You're an idiot," She stated, a hint of something Clint couldn't decipher coloring her voice. Clint shrugged as Wade reentered the bedroom. Clint gave him his backpack, hefted their duffel and motioned Romanov to lead the way. She got them to the edge of the city, just as she'd promised, then turned in the shadows and left.

 

+_+

 

"Livadi?" A voice asked, making Clint jump half out of his skin, "Isn't this place a little... touristy, for you?"

Clint stared, his mouth partially open at none other than the Black Widow herself, leaning casually on the railing next to him. He tried to recover, but it had been months since he'd last seen this beautiful, deadly woman, and honestly he really thought that would be the last time. He'd hoped it would be the last time.

"Relax, I'm not here to kill you," She said, gazing over the surf.

"Hope not," Clint decided to lead with, forcing himself to relax, "That would seriously put a damper on my vacation."

"So that's what you are doing?" She asked, "Vacationing?"

"Island hopping," Clint replied, watching his son scamper in the surf with a few other kids, "Making our way to Turkey then back up to the continent."

"Sounds fun," She mused, "Mind if I joined?"

Clint looked at her, surprise plain on his face, "You want to come with us?"

Romanov shrugged, "I have the time."

Clint worked his jaw for a second, trying to decide what to say, "What are you doing?"

"Hopefully going on a vacation," She said the world like she was tasting wine, "I've never been on one before."

"No ulterior motives?" He forced himself to ask. He didn't want to, he didn't want to pry, but he had Wade to think about.

"None," She quirked a smile, "Have you?"

"Not beyond working on my tan," He grinned, leaning further over the railing. He whistled high and bright, catching Wade's attention. The boy scrambled from the surf, picking his way through the beach until he reached the boardwalk.

"Wade, you remember Miss Natasha, right?" Clint asked, pulling the kid close, "From a few months ago?"

Wade scrutinized the woman in front of him, then shrugged, "Yeah."

"You mind if she hangs out with us for a little while?"

Wade shrugged again, totally not into the conversation, "Sure. Can I go back to the beach now?"

Clint rolled his eyes, but released his son, watching as he made his way back to his friends. When he looked back, The woman, Natasha, was giving him a scrutinizing look, as if things were falling into place.

"So you're not using him," She stated.

"What?" Clint blinked in confusion.

"The boy," She motioned absently, "When I first saw him I thought he was a shield."

"Are you--"

Clint straightened, but Natasha cut him off, "It was my mistake. I'm not trying to start trouble."

Clint glared at her a moment longer then huffed, turning back to watch is son.

Natasha stayed with them for three months. After that she would appear every once in a while, baring gifts or just wanting to sleep. She only stayed for a night or two, but Wade was always excited to see his Aunt Tasha. One night she slipped in while Wade was watching cartoons and Clint was making coffee. Wade nearly bowled her over to get a hug, but she just smiled, taking his weight. It was probably the most honest emotion Clint could ever remember seeing out of her. He handed her a mug which she took, but didn't drink, and listened intently as Wade caught her up on everything life had thrown at them. When it was time for bed, Natasha insisted on tucking him in so Clint let her, feeling uneasy. 

"Hey is everything alright?" He asked as she shut the door quietly behind her, "You seem a little--"

Natasha reached out and pulled him to her, her arms feeling like an iron band around his middle.

"Nat," He said as she let go, "Nat, wait, what--"

But she just closed the front door firmly behind her. By the time Clint wrenched it open, she was gone.

A few months later, she disappeared entirely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A friend of mine used a system very similar to Clint's to clean out his wound, so yeah it will actually work. My dentist, in a pinch, will use bourbon, but that was one time. Otherwise he uses isopropyl or straight alcohol. 
> 
> The scar looks good though...
> 
> Siedlce= SEED-L(phelm)


	5. Age: 11, Run Boy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Scariest time of my life. Lost the story, found the story, deleted the story, recovered the story, rewrote this chapter and now it's coming to you!
> 
> Dang.

The sidewalks were nearly empty this time of night. The low drizzle kept the few people out moving, heads down. No one paid any mind to the boy as he cruised past, his bike sending up spray as he dashed through puddles. He looked determined, his face red, but mostly blocked by the scarf tucked around his mouth and nose the ends stuffed into the neck of his dark blue windbreaker. His breath came in ragged as he took a turn much too fast, nearly flattening the bike until he picked up speed once more, cutting dangerously close to a van in his attempt to cross the street. He heard shouting behind him, but ignored it.

_Get to the Embassy. Get to the Embassy._

It's the last thing his dad had told him before the line went dead. _Wade, run. Get to the Embassy._

And so he would.

Wade watched the signs fly by him, trying to remember where to turn. He cut down Laplace, nearly cutting off another biker headed the opposite direction. He heard the guy scream something about his mother, but couldn't even dignify that with a response. Besides, he was already half way down the road, no reason to stop now. Wade hit the next intersection head on, skidding dangerously close to oncoming traffic until he gained the sidewalk once more. He was flagging, he could feel his legs burning, his thighs and calves screaming at him, his head pounding with excess blood. He ignored the feeling, searching for a sign to tell him where he was. D something, right? D, D, D, D....

D920. Excellent. Actually stupid. Very stupid. He had cash in his boot, not enough to get a cab to the city, but enough to get him closer than this. He cursed, cars whizzing past at a much better pace than his. His legs took that moment to shriek so Wade growled back. Whatever. He'd already stolen the bike. He was committed. He heard the thin wail of sirens behind him and nearly swallowed his tongue, picking up the pace. He only had what? Twenty-five minutes? He could make it. He knew he could make it. He thought of his Dad bleeding on a couch in Poland, of watching him pull himself into their apartment through the window with a dislocated shoulder, of his Aunt Tasha setting it back into place and only a groan escaping his father's lips. He was strong like that. He knew it. Twenty-five minutes was nothing.

Except it was. A few minutes later he was ragged, coasting as much as he could to give his legs a rest. He could feel them begin to cramp and that was enough. He stopped outside a church. Saint Pierre or something, he didn't pay attention. He dropped the bike next to the Metro stop and kept walking, his hands stiffly in his pockets, his legs like jello. He needed to find another way. He only had 15 euro on him, and at 11 he figured that wasn't going to get him all the way to the Embassy, let alone close to the river. He ducked into a corner store to steal a bottle of water and carried on, trying to blend in with the late night crowd. It was useless. He was too lanky, too small to be anything but an under aged kid running around Paris way past his bedtime. He knew it would take him twice as long on foot, but he had no choice. There was no way in hell he was gonna try risking the metro. Maybe in another city, but they'd only been in Paris a few days, not even long enough to unpack...

Wade stopped, cold realization washing over him. He'd forgotten his backpack. He had his passport in the lining of his jacket, 15 euro in his boot and _he'd left his backpack_. Wade stuffed his hands deeper in his pockets, determinedly _not_ thinking about his books and his dragon egg and his freaking teddy bear he was way too old for anyway...

"You look troubled."

Wade's head whipped up. He was standing at a cross walk, waiting with a group of teenagers and a a single man, standing next to him, in a light grey suit. The man glanced down at Wade who quickly looked away.

"Need some help?" He asked.

Wade shook his head and jogged across the street, keeping his eyes forward, all pretenses of blending in forgotten. The man had spoken to him in English. He was dressed too nice for this late at night. Wade picked up his pace. He didn't hear sirens. He didn't here the man behind him, but he wasn't about to look. His heart pounded for a whole new reason now and everywhere he looked he could see them. People who didn't belong. A couple at a coffee shop, a man walking out of a store, it wasn't that they were blatant, it was that their casual was almost too casual; actions they repeated instead of motions coming naturally. Wade flagged a taxi pulling over a woman with wild blonde hair held back with what seemed to be a rag and large, dancing eyes. She looked familiar but Wade was sure he'd never met her before.

"What are you doing running around this late at night?" She snapped in rapid French.

"Please," Wade replied, putting on his most helpless look, "I need to get to the Palace de la Concorde! I missed my bus and--"

"Palace de la Concorde?" She said, pinning him with her stare.

"Yes."

"And you're American?"

"Yes," Wade visibly deflated. The couple was getting up from the cafe, "Please--"

"Your accent is atrocious," She said in poor English, "Get it."

"Thank you!" Wade slid in and the woman gunned it, pulling into traffic with no head to the people behind her. The man of the couple raised his wrist to his mouth and Wade smiled. For now, he was ahead. He turned back around in his seat and listened absently to the woman's chatter as she curled in and out of traffic, seemingly without stopping.

"So I tell Chey, I say boy, those goats ain't gonna herd themselves and he said... Ah hell, what is this?" The cabbie slowed and Wade craned his neck to see out the front window. A road block. His heart thumped hard in his chest. He quietly unlocked the door as the woman cursed, slowing down further and further until she was forced to stop. Then he bolted.

"Hey! Boy!"

But he was already gone, ducking his way back through traffic and down to the walk right next to the river. Under a tree, he could see the police making their way to his distressed cabbie, flashlights flickering through cars as they walked. Wade shed his jacket, happy the rain had stopped and dug out his Passport. After a second's hesitation, he clenched the small book between his teeth and tied the windbreaker around his waist, hating himself for what he was going to do next. He groaned as he slowly sunk into the frigid water, feeling the current grip him tighter than he though it would. 

He took a few deep breaths (bad idea, this water was _foul_ ), and let go, steering himself as best he could down the river. He paddled hard to the bridge's support and held on, listening to the chatter overhead and scanning for the sidewalk on the other side. It was dark. Too dark to see anything in the water and definitely too dark to traverse it. Wade knew his dad could do it, he just didn't have as much faith in his own skill. But again, he had committed. He took another deep breath and pushed his legs out front, steering his body like Aunt Tasha had taught him to do down rapids towards the other shore. He was nearly to the walking bridge when he started really swimming, thrashing through the current until he reached--

A hand snaked out of the darkness and grabbed him, hauling him onto dry land, "Holy shit kid are you alright?" The man nearly shouted, roughing Wade to his feet and checking him over. Wade shook himself a little, pulling the Passport from his mouth and shoving it into his pocket. He'd explain the damage later.

"Thank you," He said, then started walking.

"Hey, wait!"

Wade reared back and kicked the man, stunning him long enough to bolt once more. He was tired. He was so tired, but he only had a little further to go. Just up the steps. Just around the park. All he could hear was blood rushing in his ears and the sharp sound of his own breathing, but he knew it wasn't much further. Five minutes. He only needed five minutes. That's when he saw him. The man from the crosswalk. He turned to run but the man who'd pulled him out of the river was behind him, blocking his way. Slowly three more people crept from the shadows. Boxing him in.

"Wade," The crosswalk man said, "I'm Agent Coulson. I'm here to take you to your father."

 

+_+

 

Clint's head hurt. He wasn't sure if it was from the fall or the blood loss (or both) but it wasn't comfortable. His ass was numb from sitting in the same metal chair for going on six hours and he hadn't seen or heard anyone for the past four. He'd slump but the zip ties on his ankles and wrists held him pretty steady. The door next to the one way mirror opened, but instead of the pirate or his scary second in command chick, it was his son. His heart lurched painfully.

"Buddy," He breathed, his shoulders slumping, but whether from defeat or relief, he couldn't decided. He'd always known Wade wouldn't get far. He kept it in mind as his son hugged his neck. He was damp and shaking slightly.

"Why are you wet?"

"Swam," Wade sniffed, pulling away to wipe his nose, "You look like crap."

"Don't say crap," Clint reprimanded, taking a good look at the boy. He was a little shaky on his feet, but other than the damp clothes he looked fine, "Where'd you swim?"

"Across the Seine," He replied, sniffing loudly, "I got all the way to the concorde before they caught me."

"You--" Clint shoot his head, looking at the one way mirror, "You let him swim the Seine?!"

No one answered, which Clint expected, but he still couldn't help shaking his head, "You need a tetanus shot, buddy."

"I got one," Wade lifted his sleeve to show his arm, "Agent Coulson told the doctors to give me a full work up."

"Agent Coulson," A shiver ran up Clint's spine.

"Yeah," Wade hesitated before he said, "He seems nice, but I don't know if I can trust him."

Clint let out a long breath, "What does your gut say?"

Wade unconsciously placed his hand on his stomach, thinking, "He hasn't lied yet, which is good. And he doesn't treat me like a kid."

"Also good," Clint nodded, forcing himself into a more parental head space, "What else?"

"He gave me doughnuts."

"Perpetuating bad eating habits, always a plus."

Wade giggled, but schooled himself, "He's got a weird face though. It's all blank and stuff."

"Is that the only negative?"

"Well he's like you," The boy shrugged, sticking his hands in his pocks, "You know. A killer. But not a bad guy."

Clint's stomach flipped uncomfortably at that. They'd talked about what Clint did, but never in detail, and never in front of an audience.

"You think I'm a bad guy?" Clint asked carefully, keeping his gaze trained on his kid.

Wade whipped his head back and forth furiously, "No," He said fiercely, "You don't kill anybody who doesn't deserve it."

Clint smirked, leaning forward a bit. Wade moved the rest of the way, bumping his head gently against his father's with a small smile of his own.

"Good boy," He said. The door opened again, showing the pirate (Director Fury, Clint reminded himself) and another man Clint would recognize anywhere. Five years and twenty yards had separated them, but Clint would never forget that stance, that blank smile. This must be Agent Coulson.

As if to confirm, Fury said, "Coulson, get the kid set up for the night."

"Sir," Coulson answered. Wade looked at his father for confirmation before following the Agent out.

"Nice kid," Fury mused.

"Hurt him and I kill you," Clint said conversationally.

Fury chuckled, taking a seat, "I have no doubt. Now, where were we?"


	6. Age: 12, Adjustment

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good news and bad news y'all:
> 
> Good News:  
> I got a beta! (wooooo! streamers! confetti! siesta!) From this chapter on she'll be fixing all those mistakes I'm only finding days after I'm posting (at 2 o'clock in the morning what? Who said that?). So everyone party with me!
> 
> Bad News:  
> I'm back from vacation! (yaaaaaaaay! wait.) Which means writings and postings will potentially slow down to Dog Distracted By Ice Cream as opposed to it's normal pace (Dog Chasing Stick Distracted By Squirrel. I get distracted a lot, guys.) But don't panic! I have too many ideas to let this story die, just bare with me, use the buddy system, and we'll all get through this together.
> 
> Y'all are epic. Stay that way. :)

Phil had never seen a rougher start than Clint and Wade Barton adjusting back into society. That's not saying they weren't civil, they were just quiet and Wade was a little reclusive, often disappearing when agents other than Phil or his father were around. What was probably weirdest was having a child running around SHIELD in the first place, but so far there was nowhere else for him to go.

"He's a normal kid," Dr. Shaffer assured Phil as he looked over the file (Clint was currently on a training exercise in the desert, so he couldn't exactly _be there_ when Wade's results came through. Phil was just picking up the slack. Barton could thank him later.), "He has mild ADHD, but it can be handled with occupational therapy and a strict schedule. His schooling, though, is all over the place."

"How so?" Phil asked, not looking up.

"He can speak three languages fluently and knows phrases in about five others, he can do complex math in his head, he knows geography beyond what any 11 year old I’ve ever met, he has trouble reading, but his comprehension scores are astounding..." Shaffer took a deep breath, "And he can disassemble and reassemble a rifle in three minutes."

Phil looked up at that, his face resolutely blank, "Can he shoot it?"

"No," she smiled, "When I asked he said his dad wouldn't teach him until he could haul it up fifteen flights without stopping. The kid's smart."

"But?"

"He's not kid smart," she shrugged, glancing behind her through the one way mirror into the kids’ rec room where Wade was getting bored with a puzzle and flicking the pieces at a hidden camera in the corner, "He can tell me all the best vantage points in any given space, but not a thing about Dr. Seuss."

"When was the last time he was in school?"

"Our last records have him in a preschool under the name Wilson when he was four," Shaffer replied, looking at her own notes, "He never went to school over seas."

"Never?" Phil blinked, "Barton taught him?"

"To a point," Shaffer sighed, "Barton's education is even sketchier than his son's. They had a system, apparently, whenever they moved to a new area. Barton would give Wade a map and a day to find every way possible to a certain destination."

"US Embassy," Phil stated.

Shaffer made a sound of agreement, "Barton usually met with his contacts at night far away from where ever they were staying, and took his son exploring during the day. Almost everything the kid knows he learned from TV, museums and first hand experience."

"Even the rifle work?" Phil wondered what else the kid knew.

"Barton taught him a few basic tricks," Shaffer explained, sounding careful all of a sudden, "But other things Wade taught himself because his father refused."

"Like what exactly?"

"The rifle is self taught. He knows some basic field medicine and knife work, apparently he practiced while Barton was out. He showed me some of his technique. He's not bad."

"He's a child," Phil said, giving the doctor a heavy look.

"Try telling him that," she replied, not flinching, "He's 11 going on 30."

"I thought you said he was normal."

"Normal is relative, Agent," Shaffer smiled one last time, "If you'll excuse me, I've got an appointment in ten minutes."

Phil nodded, turning back to the window to watch Wade now trying to balance a chair on two legs while he stood on it. Bored. The kid was bored. Phil sighed and went into the room before he could hurt himself.

 

+_+

 

"You wanted to see me, Sir?"

Coulson looked up from his paperwork, "Barton," he said, going back to the stack of files in front of him, "Yes, take a seat."

Clint sat across the desk in one of the two stiff chairs available, looking around the office. It was open, which was a little surprising, and bright even though there was only a small window in the corner. Some sort of vine sat in its direct light on top of one of those ridiculously large filing cabinets accompanied by a coffee machine, its pot clean and empty. Behind Coulson's L shaped desk stood a floor to ceiling bookshelf filled with Clint could only assume was reference material. Half of Coulson's desk (naturally) took up a portion of the third wall, leaving the fourth empty, save the door and a generic landscape painting.

"Have you considered a couch?"

Coulson looked up, "Excuse me?"

"For the back wall," Clint motioned with his thumb and shrugged, "I don't know, it just seems kinda bare to me."

Coulson's eyes flicked behind Clint and back, "I figured you'd want to see your son's files."

Okay, no small talk. Clint leaned forward to take the folder Coulson held out to him, switching from professional assassin to paranoid father. He wondered if this was how parents felt during those parent teacher conferences. It was not a good feeling.

"There were some things left in your apartment in France," Coulson continued, "I took the liberty of having them delivered to your quarters."

"Thank you, Sir."

Everything had been replaceable, even Wade said he didn't miss anything which Clint highly doubted, but wasn't about to push. The kid had always been very good about letting go, he hadn't said a thing about the bear and Clint was starting to think maybe he never would.

"I also wanted to discuss your plans for Wade."

Clint looked up from his son's psych evaluation, eying the Senior Agent in front of him, "In what context?" he asked, before belatedly tacking on, "Sir."

Coulson's lip ticked up a fraction before settling once more as if it never happened, "Naturally SHIELD has a policy about children in the work place, and I am fully aware--" Coulson raised his hand when Clint opened his mouth to object, "--you and Director Fury have discussed your case in length. Rest assured I'm not trying to take your son away from you, however I would like to start planning his future placement--"

"Placement," Clint felt his gut clench familiarly.

Coulson paused, seeing something in his face, "He can't stay here forever, Barton," he started gently, "You understand that."

"Yes," Clint tried to stay reasonable around the rock in his throat.

"Your situation is rare, but not unheard of," Coulson flipped open on of the files he'd been pouring over when Clint arrived and pushed it forward. Clint took it, scrutinizing the picture.

"The Parkers," Coulson explained, "Ben used to be an analyst for us. He now runs a relatively successful plumbing business in Brooklyn. His wife, May, was a nurse for 34 years, and the little boy is Peter, their nephew. He's about Wade's age."

Clint looked down at the smiling family, his stomach rolling to ice. This is what Clint wanted for his son. Down to the white picket fence. Down to the freaking yard. He closed the file carefully before placing it and Wade's psych eval on Coulson's desk. He couldn't look at it. If he did he'd tear it apart. 

"Will that be all, Sir?" Clint asked, eyes steady, face neutral. Coulson considered him for a moment, then nodded and Clint was gone.

He made his way on auto pilot, people scampering out of his way as he moved. He didn't even notice. His thoughts swam with the picture of the small family, the man holding his wife's waist, a hand placed gently on the boy's shoulder. In his mind the photo warped, adding Wade with his Cheshire grin, his arm around the little boy's neck and no. It was Barney, and Clint and a drunk father and an abused mother. No one was smiling. Their cheeks were hollow and their eyes were empty and Barney was choking...

Clint shut his brain down, pausing in the middle of the hall to take a deep breath. His experience was not Wade's. He'd never raised a hand to his son save to wipe down a stray lock when his hair was sleep mussed. His son laughed. His son smiled. His son was happy. He was not his father's experience. Clint took another deep breath and pushed the door open to his quarters, pausing to take in the scene. Wade was sitting in the middle of the floor, his old back pack next to his knee, its contents spread around him. He had his bear perched comfortably in his lap and the little dragon egg held up to catch the afternoon sun peaking through the high window.

"Did you know this is see through?" Wade asked, puzzling over the blue material.

Clint let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding, his chest filling with warmth as he smiled.

"I had no idea."

 

+_+

 

Phil watched the Bartons stroll down the boardwalk, Wade talking animatedly with his hands while Clint smiled down at his son. Phil had worked with Clint a few times at this point, and never had he seen such a genuine expression on the man. He smirked, and he leered, and he had a particularly evil grin Phil found amusing, but he never smiled for anyone but Wade. Phil waited a moment after the pair passed him to follow, catching up easily to say, "Aren't you supposed to be at work?"

Barton didn't even flinch, but Wade jumped out of his skin. Phil raised an eyebrow at the boy just as Clint replied, "We haven't been exploring yet. Figured today was as good as any."

"Were you planning on telling anyone?"

"Left a note on your desk," Clint said innocently.

"I noticed," Phil acknowledged. The "note" as Clint called it had been pinned on his door with an arrowhead, written on the back of a very late P32-A form. It had only said _going out ___in the archer's messy scrawl. Phil had sighed inwardly and at least given the man points for brevity if not style.

"You understand there is a chain of command for these things, correct?" 

Clint looked at Phil oddly, "Yeah. That's why I gave it to you." 

Phil didn't roll his eyes, "I'm not your supervisor, Barton." 

"You're not?" he looked startled by the prospect which Phil thought was odd. After the foster home debacle, Clint had made a point to stay away from Phil outside missions and briefings. Phil wasn't hurt, he realized his mistake as soon as he pulled out the Parker's file, but he hadn't had the chance to... well, apologize. He should have realized Clint wouldn't see a family fostering Wade as an opportunity to keep his son safe in a healthy environment, he just hadn't expected the conversation to go so wrong so fast. But now Clint was looking at him as if the idea of Phil not being his immediate superior had never crossed his mind. 

"No," Phil said, "That would be Agent Patrice." 

"Huh," Clint paused, so Phil stopped next to him, "So what are you doing here?" 

"Finding you," Phil kept an eye on Wade as he wandered, knowing Clint was doing the same. 

"Is there a mission?" Clint straightened at the prospect, sending a glance to Wade before turning back to Phil. 

"No," Phil mused, "Just an over abundance of paperwork." 

Clint's lip twitched, "Yeah, I don't think so." 

Phil hummed and Clint's grin widened a fraction as Wade joined them once more, now carrying a giant pink rabbit. Phil looked at it, then Clint who shrugged. When Phil looked back to Wade, however, the boy narrowed his eyes. He kinda looked like his father. 

"Are you gonna make us go back?" he asked finally, "'Cause I've got," he pulled up his sleeve to show a bare wrist, "like, 13 hours left before my birthday's over and I haven't ridden the roller coaster yet." 

"He's not forcing us back, buddy, he just came to check in," Clint explained before Phil could open his mouth. He glanced at the archer again, this time receiving a raised brow in answer. 

"Cool," Wade pushed his hair out of his face and hefted the rabbit a little higher, "How good are you with guns?" 

Phil gave a slightly worried look to the kid, "Good," He deadpanned. 

"Good," Wade gave a wicked grin, "Win me the giraffe." 

"Excuse me?" 

"Buddy, no," Clint rubbed his eyes. 

"Dad," Wade said in his most reasonable voice, "It's my birthday. How many times am I gonna ask for a giant stuffed giraffe?" 

"Probably until we leave," Clint replied. He turned to Phil looking apologetic. Yet another thing he never thought he'd see on Clint Barton - actual remorse, "You can leave. Really. We won't be offended."

" _I'll_ be offended," Wade interjected. Clint swiped his son's ear.

"We won't be offended," Clint reiterated, "I'm sure there's some paperwork that needs filing or--"

"You sure you want the giraffe?" Phil asked, turning his full attention to Wade, "The whale looks bigger."

Wade's smile grew manic and Clint all but gaped at Phil who let the tiniest smirk curl his mouth. Ten minutes later Clint was carrying the pink rabbit, as Wade's hands were now filled with a fluffy Orca. The kid was nearly catatonic with joy.

"Don't forget to have those cleared with security," Phil told Clint seriously as he passed, pulling on his shades.

"Hey whoa, where are you going?" Clint called.

"I've got some paperwork that needs filing," he replied, raising a two finger farewell. Wade cracked up and Phil let himself have a little smile as he turned the corner back to his car.

It only occurred to him, very late that night (actually, very early the next morning), he'd missed the opportunity to apologize for bringing up a foster home for Wade. Phil closed his eyes, a hand hovering over a half completed report and sighed. Well, it's not like he had Clint's respect in the first place, so no harm done really.

Except the next day, there was a new note, this time on a post-it stuck to a new P32-A form, paper clipped to a request for transfer. The archer wanted Phil to be his Handler. He gazed at Clint's name on the bottom of each sheet, waiting for his signature, then the post-it.

Director Furry sends his regards.

Phil closed his office door, confused until he saw the rabbit. It sat proudly in Phil's chair one ear lopsided from the eye patch, looking much pinker and fluffier than the day before. Okay, so Phil didn't have Clint's respect.

At least the guy didn't hate him.


	7. Age: 14, Being Normal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my God. Oh my God it's done. Oh my God it tooK ME TWO MONTHS TO WRITE A DAMN CHAPTER OH MY GOD I'M SORry. I'm so sorry.
> 
> But I'm back. And this is back. And it's still being beta'd by the effervescent, magical consciousness that is Shazrolane (btw check out her stuff too it's pretty freaking awesome). And it still has a lot to go I just got blindsided by. Well. Life. For like. A minute. 
> 
> Ish.
> 
> So yes, thank you for your patience, thank you for your kudos, and thank you for your comments!

Wade's heart was in his throat. He sat quietly, his leg jiggling, his hands clasped in his lap. People walked past, some glancing over the kid and others looking on curiously. Wade ignored them, trying to think of anything, _anything,_ to keep his interest away from the door he was outside of. Someone sat a cup next to his hand. Wade looked up to see Agent Sitwell, a smirk curling his lip.

"Calm down, you're scaring people."

Wade stared blankly at the Agent, then looked around. The hall was nearly empty. When he looked back, Sitwell was wearing a full grin, looking through the window above Wade's head. The kid groaned, covering his face in his hands, "How bad is it?"

"Classified," Sitwell responded, "They should be out to talk to you in a minute."

Wade looked up as Sitwell made his leave and called, "Thanks for the uh--" Wade looked into the cup next to him, scrutinizing the content, "Sprite?"

"Soda water," Sitwell called back, entering the elevator at the end of the hall, "You don't need the sugar."

Wade groaned again as the elevator dinged closed on Sitwell's stupid smirking face and hung his head once more. He wanted turn around and see just how far they'd gotten, how much longer he had to wait, but wouldn't let himself. His first thought was that he'd jinx it, and he'd worked too damn hard for that crap. He let out a long breath, slouching painfully low in his chair before straightening, rubbing his thighs with his palms, aborting a turn to look, and jiggling his leg again. It was said Wade inherited his legendary lack of patience from his father. Clint wasn't sure something like that was hereditary, Wade tended to agree. His nerves must've come from his mom then...

The door beside him opened, sending Wade to his feet. Dr. Shaffer blinked, "You know you could've gone back to your room."

"Couldn't wait," Wade said immediately, watching the two men exit the office behind her without a backward glance, "What's the verdict?"

Shaffer gave him an amused look, "You make it sound like it's life or death."

"Uh, yeah, because it is," Wade rolled his eyes, "It's kinda my entire future, you know?"

The doctor's smile turned a little sad, "I know."

Wade's chest tightened unexpectedly, "So?"

"So," Shaffer replied slowly, "You passed."

Wade blinked, "What?"

"You passed, Wade," she repeated grinning warmly, "You're officially a High School freshman."

Wade gawked, opening and closing his mouth until his twitches took over and he was nearly vibrating out of his skin, "Seriously?!"

"Keep your voice down," Shaffer ordered, immediately checking their surroundings, "People are in sessions."

"I could kiss you," He told her, his hands flexing in an aborted move to pick her up and spin her around, "You could kill me and there's like, a million laws against it, but I could totally kiss you. Like, right now."

"Don't," She said, pointing her finger threateningly, "I'll send the papers over to Coulson and your father."

"Thank you. I love you. Thank you," and Wade ran, punching through the door to the stairs and taking them three at a time down to his father in the range. He nearly fell through the door, sweaty and out of breath as he jogged across the large space to his father's usual corner. But he was missing. Wade checked the digital clock on the wall, his watch, then back peddled to the armory, "Sir, where's Agent Barton?"

The man behind the grate looked up from cleaning the counter, "He left early. Got pulled out for a mission."

Wade's heart skipped a beat. He bolted this time for the elevator, figuring he had the best chance of intercepting his father if he went straight to the flight deck. Wade cursed as the elevator made its way up, slowly depositing and receiving agents as it went. There was no way he was about to miss his dad this dramatically. Clint _always_ got forewarning for a mission. Wade was going to kill Coulson. Well. You know. If he knew Coulson wouldn't just kill him back. Finally Wade had enough. He cut out just as the doors opened and sprinted to the stairs, taking them two at a time up eight flights. It was a bitch, but he made it. He nearly fell through the door, stumbling to a halt with his hands on his knees, gasping for air.

"You should've taken the elevator. Much faster," Sitwell said next to his elbow. 

Wade didn't even give the man the courtesy of standing up straight, "Wha..." He panted, still fighting for air, "How..... You....."

Sitwell just gave him a patronizing look, "Use your words, kid."

Wade threw a glare to the Agent before his attention was stolen by a quinjet taking off and heading east.

"Please tell me Dad isn't on that transport," Wade said, finally straightening in resignation.

"Okay," Sitwell replied, sliding his hands in his pockets as they watched the twin thrusters disappear over the horizon.

Wade groaned, his head falling back, "Are you kidding me?"

"Cheer up," Sitwell gave Wade a friendly pat on the back as he turned to leave, "They'll only be gone for a few weeks."

"What?!" Wade nearly broke his jaw it hit the floor so hard, "Are you serious?"

Sitwell raised an eyebrow, "What's so important that you need to tell him?"

"I got into High School!" Wade threw his arms up in frustration, "A Normal High School with Normal Kids and homework I can complain about and gym class I'll have to pretend to suck at and..." Wade visibly deflated, "And people who don't know how to kill you with nail clippers and a rubber band."

"Too easy," Sitwell dismissed, leading the boy back into the bowels of SHIELD, "Pencil eraser and a band-aid, now that's hard."

Wade rolled his eyes dejectedly, "Where are we going?"

"My office," the Agent replied, "I've got a direct line to Coulson in case something big happens while he's gone."

When Wade just gaped, Sitwell gave him what might pass in some (emotionally stunted) circles as concern, "I think this counts, don't you?"

"Yeah," Wade said, shaking himself out of his stupor, "Yeah, no, definitely. Sir. Totally. Totally counts."

Sitwell just rolled his eyes.

 

+_+

 

Clint kept his eyes closed as they took off, his bow case at his feet and Coulson across from him, going over last minute details for their very last minute mission on his StarkPad. Coulson had pulled him out of the range only an hour earlier, catching Clint's attention before leading the archer to his office and closing the door behind him.

"Everything alright, Sir?" Clint had asked. He could see the strain in Coulson's jaw, a tick the Senior Agent generally kept under wraps.

"No, Barton," he'd replied, going around his desk to gather papers and files into tidy stacks, "We've got an op. I need you ready and on the transport by 1400."

"Yes, Sir," Clint answered immediately, pausing before he turned away, "What are we going after?"

Coulson looked up at that, his face hard lines and thin lips, "The Black Widow is back."

A thin chirp pulled Clint from his reverie. He opened his eyes and watched Coulson pull out his phone, frowning slightly at the screen, "Coulson."

Clint watched Coulson's face for any hint of the conversation happening on the other end, but the Senior Agent wasn't giving anything away.

"Can it wait?" He asked, pausing to listen to the answer. His eyes flicked to Clint, then handed over the phone, "It's Wade."

Clint's heart hit his throat as he took the cell, "Hey buddy, everything alright?"

"Yeah," His son sounded breathless and excited, "I made it. I tested into school."

Clint stared blankly across the way to Coulson who stared resolutely back, quirking an eyebrow.

"Dad?"

"Yeah," Clint blinked, breaking eye contact, "Yeah, I'm here kiddo. Congratulations, I didn't realize it was happening today, I would've been there..."

"It's no big," Clint could hear the kid's shrug, "There was always a chance it wasn't going to happen, you know?"

"No there wasn't," Clint chided, leaning back a little, "I'm really proud of you, Wade. Thank you for calling."

"Yeah..." Wade sounded unsure now, "Sorry for interrupting. It could've waited."

"Nah, it's fine," Clint replied, "I'll talk to you later though, okay?"

"Sure," The kid hesitated, and Clint was sure he was about to say something he thought he shouldn't, "See ya."

"We'll be back soon," Clint assured, then hung up, handing the phone back to Coulson and leaning his head against the wall, eyes closed.

"Everything alright?" Coulson asked. 

Clint nodded, not opening his eyes, "Wade's going to High School.

 

+_+

 

Clint Barton was not a sentimental man. He didn't keep trinkets or momentos, hell to an extent even his bow was replaceable. He wouldn't be happy about it, but he could always get another. No, the only thing Clint held on to with a tight grip were memories, and these days an astounding amount of them were of Wade. Clint guessed that's what fathers did. Think about their kids. And now he had an acute knowledge of that feeling, that heart wrenching, gut churning, take them into the bowels of your soul and protect them from the world forever feeling that had plagued parents for generations.

_They grow up so fast._

Okay, maybe Clint was over reacting. Maybe not.

But High School. That was huge. A giant step towards being a normal teenager. Clint had always wanted Wade to be normal, to grow up away from all the bad things he'd seen and heard and learned to be truths about the world. He wanted Wade to be something bigger than that. Something better. And now he had the opportunity. He could make friends, play sports, have a girlfriend if he so chose...

The thought made Clint light and heavy at the same time. He thought about the family in the folder. The Parkers. Ben, May, and Peter. How much simpler Wade's school life would be if his home life was just as simple. It hurt, but he had to consider the possibility of leaving his son in their care. 

No. Not leaving. Just letting him stay with them. Clint _was not_ abandoning his son. What was the word Coulson used? Placing. He was _placing_ Wade in their care. Temporarily. 

_"He can't stay here forever, Barton. You understand that."_

Clint didn't know what it was about Phil Coulson. The man had hunted him for years, taken (okay, maybe not _taken_ but Clint definitely wouldn't say _protected_ ) his son in government custody, forced Clint to join SHIELD (alright that was mostly Fury, whatever), and recommended Clint give up the only family he had. The guy did not have a spotless record. And maybe a few of those things were stretches, and _maybe_ Clint was building it up in his head a little bit, but the fact still stood that there was very little tying Clint Barton to Phil Coulson other than an employer. And the whole specialist/handler thing.

And Wade.

The point is, there shouldn't be the level of trust between the two when they've only known each other through paperwork (Coulson) and nightmares (Clint). But on top of that building in Belgrade, Clint sighting down his rifle to a woman he'd thought was dead, his finger itching, but whether to pull away or shoot he couldn't tell, a thought struck him. He trusted Phil Coulson.

He instantly tried to wipe the idea from his mind, settling back into the calm focus he'd adapted hours earlier, but it was too late. Clint didn't trust easily. Not since Barney. Definitely not since Duquesne. And yet here he was, with blind faith for some guy he didn't even know the middle name of. A guy who'd chased his son down to potentially use as leverage against him. He was pretty sure Coulson didn't even like him all that much. Sure, they were professional, but the grandest gesture he'd seen was taking his advice on the couch, which was just sensible and probably not a gesture at all. He didn't know if he was married, or lived in a brownstone or a loft or some shitty apartment in Alphabet City. He didn't know if his parents were still alive or if he had siblings...

He did know how the guy liked his coffee; didn't care if it was three days old and burnt to hell or made from the most expensive beans in the world, as long as he could add sugar, he would drink it. And he liked big band music. He wore reading glasses in his office when he was alone. He was probably the most organized person Clint had ever met...

But you don't just implicitly _trust_ someone because of their beverage habits or their ability to multitask. That was probably the _worst_ reason to trust someone.

"Barton," Coulson's voice broke Clint out of his reverie as he watched the lady on the bike, who'd been speaking with Natasha a moment before, trying to sell her flowers, apparently, pedal away with no heed to traffic, "You have the green light. Take the shot."

"Yes sir."

Clint brought himself back, staring down his barrel with a new determination, déjà vu crawling up his spine. He remembered a shitty strip mall and a blue truck, terrified eyes and a shaking child...

Then Natasha ordered another drink.

"Sir."

"Everything alright?" Coulson asked immediately. Clint wanted to say yes. He wanted to say never mind, take the shot, and head home. He wanted to pretend he'd never met Natasha Romanoff. Never considered her a friend. He didn't want Wade to find out he'd killed the only other half of his family he'd ever accepted. He didn't want to be the one pulling the trigger.

"Barton."

"I think she wants a meeting," Clint said quickly, checking the square over once more. No one was approaching her table. No one was acknowledging her.

There was silence for a long time, then, "I'm going to need a good explanation to even think about getting this past Fury."

The tightness in Clint's chest loosened, letting him take a breath, "She looked at me."

"When?" Coulson's voice dropped, sounding deadly and something Clint couldn't understand.

"Before she ordered the second drink," He watched the waitress bring out two glasses and amended, "Second round."

"She's supposed to be waiting for a contact," Coulson reminded him, sounding skeptical.

"She hasn't killed anyone since the spree that got her back on SHIELD's radar," Clint replied, "And she wouldn't meet in the open in a crowded area. Too many variables she can't control."

Silence reigned once more, this time longer. Clint watched Natasha check the time, "Sir, we've swept the area. There's no one here but us and her."

There was no answer. Clint licked his lips and retrained the rifle, because if Coulson came back with the order, he wouldn't hesitate. He would hate himself, but he wouldn't hesitate. The thought sent another roil through his gut before he heard, "Are you sure."

It wasn't really a question, but Clint didn't know how else to take it, "Positive, sir."

"Permission granted to approach," Coulson directed, "Be careful, Barton."

Clint's blink was his only hint of surprise, "Sir," He confirmed, then began quickly disassembling the rifle.

+_+

"I was about to give up," Natasha didn't stand as Clint took the seat across from her, only motioned to the beer at his elbow.

"What are you doing, Tash?" He asked, ignoring the drink.

"Exactly what you did," She replied, taking a sip of her own, "Getting out."

"I didn't get out."

"Switching sides, then."

"Tasha..."

"I'm sorry."

Clint stared, his brow creased, "You're sorry."

"I can't talk about where I've been, or what I've been up to," She explained, sliding her finger around the rim of her glass almost absently, "But it's done. I'm ready to get out."

"Natasha, you've assassinated 17 people in two weeks."

Her eyes shuttered, "I had some loose ends to take care of."

Clint sighed audibly, rubbing his face.

"So can you help me?"

He dropped his hand, "With what?"

Natasha rolled her eyes like she used to when he asked stupid questions, the action almost completely hiding her tension.

"He can't help you," Clint jerked around in surprise when he heard Coulson's voice, "He doesn't have the clearance."

Clint just stared as Coulson took a chair from another table and pulled it up to theirs, seating himself much closer than Clint thought anyone would be comfortable with when it came to the Black Widow, "My name is Agent Coulson, by the way."

"Natasha Romanoff," Natasha replied with little pretense, and Clint honestly thought he'd been thrown in a parallell universe when Coulson said, "Director Fury sends his regards. He also mentioned there was always a spot open within his organization. Whenever you're ready."

Clint gaped at his handler, who didn't even look at him. Coulson's normally relaxed facade seemed colder, more distant, but none of it entered his voice. Natasha just smiled, as if Coulson's declaration was a pleasant surprise and said, "I just might take him up on that."


	8. It's a Stop Start Motion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all real quick thank you once again to the Beta Fairies for bringing Shazrolane into my internet life and also my Stalker Extraordinaire ephinee who keeps me working because I probs would've given this up months ago if those two weren't unintentionally holding me accountable.
> 
> Also, don't hate me for this next bit...

"What just happened back there?" Barton had kept himself quiet all through the trip back to base, the debriefing, even the obligatory medical visit which Phil thought was some sort of record. Now, however he didn't even try to hide his dismay and honestly, Phil couldn't blame him. He looked up from his paperwork to the archer slumped on the couch, looking rough but tense. Natasha was in holding, being debriefed by Fury himself before being officially recruited to SHIELD. Barton wasn't allowed to view the proceedings, but Phil at least thought he'd want to find his son, not sit in an office while his handler did paperwork.

"Where's Wade?"

Barton glared, crossing his arms, "With May. She's keeping him entertained."

Phil nodded, looking down to center his thoughts, "I don't know what happened," He finally said, looking back at Barton, "I radioed in the change of plans and a minute later Fury called, telling me to get her into the fold."

"Why?" Barton seemed to be holding himself down with pure strength of will, "Why were we sent if all we were going to end up doing was this? Why didn't he send us to just recruit her instead?"

"I don't know," Phil felt his agitation rise even as his calm demeanor held firm, "Fury's not talking, and I feel this isn't something we're going to get out of him."

"That's bullshit," Barton stood, flexing his hands.

"Barton, take a seat," Phil motioned back to the couch with his pen and when the archer just glared, he said, "Nothing's going to get done with you like this. You're exhausted, so either go to bed or take a seat. Your choice."

Barton eyed Phil a moment longer before sitting down, the fight leaving him as he slumped into the thick cushions and covered his eyes, "Where the hell has she been?"

"You could ask her," Phil responded reasonably, going back to his report.

"I did. She said she couldn't tell me."

"Then she'll tell you when she's ready. If she's ready."

Barton snorted, his hands slapping his thighs as they slid from his face, "Yeah. If."

They sat in silence, each off in their own world. Time seemed to slow for a while as Phil worked methodically through the stack of papers on his desk until he looked up, hours later, to the couch. Barton had stretched out at some point, his hands on his stomach as he snoozed lightly. For a moment, Phil just watched his asset, his boots hanging off the side of the couch, snoring quietly, probably the most relaxed he’d seen the other man in days.

His mind wandered as he watched the rhythmic breathing, inevitably bringing him back to Belgrade and the Black Widow. Natasha Romanov. He knew without a shadow of a doubt he would never know why she was here, why she’d turned herself in. He had upmost faith in Fury and his calls, wouldn’t cross him if he dared…

But this one _itched_.

There was something about the situation that just sat _wrong_ in his gut. He thought about her disappearance, the people she killed when she came back. They’d been bad, there was no doubt, but there was no sense to it either. He wondered where she’d been. She hadn’t looked damaged.

Then again they never do.

“See something you like?”

Phil blinked, realizing his breathe had synced with Barton’s at some point. The archer’s eyes were still closed.

“Debating on waking you,” Phil replied, turning off his computer and starting his end of the day ritual. Briefcase, files, keys…

“You’d lock me in?” Barton tried to sound hurt, but it failed as he rubbed his eyes and stood to stretch. Phil knew it was an act. Barton had been wide-awake as soon as he spoke.

Phil held the door open for Barton to exit first, “If you can’t get yourself out of a locked room, you’re in the wrong profession.”

Barton snorted in response as they made their way to the elevators. The office was dark and quiet, but far from dead. Phil could see small pockets of light flooding from cubicles as agents continued working potentially through the night. One of the other senior agents raised a hand in farewell as she directed an op over the phone. Phil returned the gesture.

“You eat?” Barton asked as the elevator doors closed, “The mess will be shit, but that place down the street is pretty good.”

“I’ve got too much food spoiling at home,” Phil replied, thinking longingly of a meal he wouldn’t have to cook himself, “Rain check.”

“Sure,” Barton nodded, sliding his hands in his pockets, “I’ve gotta track down Wade anyway. Make sure he doesn’t get down to R and D again.”

“What’s in R and D?” Phil asked.

Barton huffed, but whether from amusement or resignation it was hard to tell, “Someone made him swords.”

“Excuse me?”

“Yeah. Apparently he mentioned there was only so much you could learn with throwing knives and someone took that as a challenge,” Barton shook his head as the elevator dinged on his floor, “I’ll see you later, Coulson.”

“Tomorrow,” Phil corrected, “We’ve still got some paperwork to go over.”

Barton rolled his eyes but gave a lazy salute as the doors shut, taking Phil down to the parking garage. It wasn’t until he was half way to his car, pulling out his keys that he realized his mistake. Clint Barton had asked him to dinner. _Clint Barton had asked him to dinner._

And he’d refused.

He closed his eyes, feeling his shoulders sink minutely under the weight of his epiphany. Stupid.

Stupid.

 

+_+

 

Wade has been living with secret agents since he was five.

Okay, he’s lived with an assassin since he was five, he’s lived with secret agents since he was 11, _regardless_.

Wade Barton knows when he’s being lied to. 

Okay so no one was lying to him, but no one was _talking to him_ either, and that was just as frustrating. If not more. Probably more.

When his father had come back from the last minute mission he’d been stoic, quieter than usual. Whenever he saw Coulson, his handler would shake his head and his dad would sink further into himself. Wade was at a loss. Something was _obviously_ happening, but anytime he tried to figure out what he was shut down.

“No clue.”

“Classified.”

“Sorry kid, it’s need to know.”

His father would just shake his head and look worried.

It was the worry that finally set him off. His father didn’t worry. At least he didn’t _show_ worry. He went to Coulson’s office, figuring if anyone knew, it would be him. The senior agent just looked at the tall, skinny boy in front of his desk with a raised eyebrow.

“Classified,” he said simply. Wade rolled his eyes dramatically and slumped onto the couch, picking at Director Furry’s ear where the bunny was squished between the wall and the sofa.

“You gotta be able to tell me something dude,” He mumbled exasperatedly. Coulson stared at him. Wade cleared his throat and sat up straighter, “Sorry, Sir.”

“Unfortunately the information is on a need to know basis,” Coulson explained, going back to his computer, “As soon as there’s something to share, your father will know.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Hmm,” Coulson squinted at his screen, “Have a good afternoon, Wade.”

The boy took no time leaving.

He thought long and hard about his next move. He didn’t have very many resources; he couldn’t exactly bully or con anyone into telling him what was going on, he wasn’t anywhere near good enough for that, so he turned to the one person who, if he couldn’t tell Wade, would at least make him feel better.

“I’m eating,” Sitwell deadpanned.

Wade set down his tray and dropped into the seat across the table, “So am I.”

“Hmm,” the agent replied, sounding eerily like Coulson.

“Why is everyone acting weird?”

“Kid, you’re in a building full of highly trained agents and specialists,” Sitwell said patiently, “Almost all of them are lacking in social graces.”

Wade snorted around his rubber burger, trying not to inhale the bite, “Can I get that in writing?”

“Doubtful,” he replied, then thought for a moment, “Though I think Patrice sent a memo around saying something similar a while back…”

Wade knew a good derailment when he saw one, “I just want to know why Dad’s worried,” he said, making himself sound young and insecure. And if it wasn’t all forced, well, no one had to know.

Except he was sitting across from a man who did espionage for a living, so instead of a straight, yet sympathetic answer, Wade got, “Barton worries?”

Wade rolled his eyes so hard his head went with it, “Oh my _God_ you suck.”

Sitwell chuckled as Wade threw away his barely touched tray and stalked from the mess. He had every intention of giving up. He was going to go back to his room and sulk and probably watch Netflix until four in the morning or something caught his attention.

“She’s terrifying,” a junior agent said, “I was only down there for, like, five minutes and she took out six guys _with her thighs_.”

“Fucking scary,” the other agent replied, shaking his head, “No wonder they call her the Black Widow.”

Wade stood very, very still as the agents passed, his brain completely offline.

_”Why do they call you that Aunt Tasha?”_

_“Because Black Widows are dangerous. And so am I.”_

_“No you’re not! You’re like Dad!”_

_“… I wish I could be half as good as your father,_ Malyutka. _”_

It only took Wade seven minutes to find his dad then, standing in the observation room with Coulson, Fury, Hill and a host of other agents as they watched Natasha Romanov go through her paces. He tried to stay by the back wall, but his father noticed him immediately. He shook his head, but motioned him closer to the glass for a better view. Coulson raised a brow slightly, not saying a word. Wade wasn’t paying attention anyway, his eyes caught and held by the woman on the floor, barely breaking a sweat as she ran the obstacle course, slipping through it like water, disappearing before reappearing twenty feet away and vanishing again.

“She’s good,” Hill commented.

“We already knew that,” Fury replied.

Natasha reached the end of the course, grabbing the staff on the ground and landing one hard thwack on the agent in front of her, turning fluidly to block another agent as a third rushed her.

“She’s very good,” Coulson observed.

“I’m still not impressed,” the Director responded.

Well, Fury could pull his macho indifference all he wanted, because Wade was _enthralled_. He didn’t know which he was more excited about; his aunt’s return (a steady chorus of _”She’s back! She’s back! She’s back!”_ had been running through his head since he’d overheard the junior agents) or how thoroughly she was beating seasoned senior agents to a pulp. He watched her movements, graceful yet hard, and wondered idly if she would teach him how to do that. How to make his body fluid and—

Something caught Natasha’s attention. She snapped her head to the booth, her eyes meeting Wade’s for all of a second before the agent she was supposed to be defending against smacked her hard across the head, sending her stumbling. The room froze. Quiet gasps erupted as everyone watched Natasha Romanov. Wade felt his father stiffen next to him. Fury’s eye narrowed.

It was like a gate had come loose. Natasha looked at the agent, whose face had gone pail, felt her head for a bump, and dropped her staff. The fight was over in moments, the Black Widow reigning holy hell down on the poor men and women against her until everyone was on the ground, no longer moving, some fighting to breath.

“She was holding out on us,” Fury mused, a smirk flitting across his features before he left, Hill right behind him.

“Apparently,” Coulson agreed to the now empty room. Clint just smiled, squeezing Wade’s shoulder as he steered his son out.

 

+_+

 

Clint didn’t talk to Coulson for a long time as they sat, Clint on the couch, his handler in one of his guest chairs turned around. The office was unusually quiet, as if the world understood the severity of the decision Clint was about to make. His hands were clasped white knuckled in front of him, eyes screwed shut as he breathed deeply.

“I know this isn’t an easy decision,” Coulson said quietly, “If you need more time—“

“No,” Clint cut in immediately, keeping his eyes closed. He felt stupid, this was his own hang ups, his own issues coming between him and his ability to raise his son.

The Parkers file sat at the far end of the couch, just out of reach.

“They’re good?” he asked, trying to keep his voice even.

“They’re good,” Coulson replied, his lip ticking up in a kindness Clint couldn’t bare right now. He felt sick. He felt worthless.

“Make the call.”


	9. The Fear of Letting Go

Wade looked up at the house, trepidation seeping up his spine as he gulped. It wasn’t scary or anything, in fact it was a nice house, clean and well kept with a trim yard and a freshly painted railing around the porch. He looked at his father (nearly at eye level now, thanks growth spurt), who just gave him an encouraging smile and a nudge before heading up the front steps. The door was opened as they reached it by a warm face and a gracious smile.

"Hello," the woman greeted, dark hair pulled away from her face haphazardly. The apron she wore over her denim shirt was clean but warn from use and her eyes, though good natured, held an intelligence Wade found at once comforting and intimidating. This must be May Parker.

"Hi," his dad returned, reaching out a free hand to shake hers, "Clint Barton."

"May Parker," she smiled, "And you must be Wade."

"Nice to meet you," Wade's voice wavered for all of a second, sending a blush across his cheeks as he cleared his throat and straightened. May just looked amused as she stepped aside, "Please come in. Would you like any help with your bags?"

"No thank you, Ma'am," Clint replied courteously, "It would be great if you just showed us where to put them."

"Of course, right this way," May led them upstairs to a room at the top. She pushed open the door to what was most obviously a teenage boy's room. Everything was covered in something: posters on the walls, clothes on the floor, sheets and comforter a bundled mess in the middle of one of the two beds. A boy about Wade's age took off his headphones, exiting whatever he was doing on the computer.

"Oh you're home!" May beamed, "Peter, this is Wade, he'll be staying with us for a little while."

"Hey," Peter said, looking Wade up and down before staring. Wade felt himself shift uncomfortably, worried there was something on his face.

"Hey," Wade replied off handedly, finally thinking maybe this wasn't the greatest idea after all.

"Wade you can set your things over there," May motioned to the far bed, "This will be your dresser here, and the bathroom is right next door."

"Okay," Wade nodded, taking the duffle from his dad and picking his way through the mess to the one clean spot in the room. The bed was nice, maybe a bit small, with a faded red comforter and white sheets tucked with military corners. Gee, he felt at home already. It was thought in jest but something in him _did_ unwind a bit. Maybe he just needed a bit of familiarity.

"We'll leave you to set yourself up," May said, "I trust you'll be staying for dinner, Mr. Barton."

"Please," his dad sounded slightly pained, "Call me Clint. And I actually--"

"Was totally looking forward to it," Wade cut in before his dad could back out, "Weren't you, Dad?"

Clint gave his son a rueful smile, "I was going to say I'd love to, thanks buddy."

"Hey, no problem," Wade replied with a flippant smile. Inside a little bit more of his anxiety melted away. Not that he expected his father to just up and run, but they weren't exactly a Sit Around The Table And Talk About Your Day At Dinner type of family. Clint couldn't exactly tell Wade what he was doing most of the time and Wade wasn't much to rehash the details of his (honestly monotonous) days. There's only so many times you can complain about burnt mystery meat from the mess or how Agent Baylor had handed him his ass _again_ before it got old.

"You want any help unpacking?" his dad asked.

Wade shrugged, "I think I can handle a couple shirts."

"Okay," Clint smiled, "Just checking."

"We'll be downstairs if you need us," May said, and with that she led his father away. Wade turned back to his despicably small collection of items and began the process of making himself at home. After so many years on the road, he had a process: backpack first. Extra shoes placed under the bed, toothbrush and paste in the bathroom, charger, phone, and egg on the nightstand. He hesitated at the bear, staring at the small ratty thing at the bottom of the bag before sneaking a glance at the Peter kid... who hurriedly turned away from him?

Wade straightened, the bear forgotten in his confusion, "Something wrong?"

"Huh?" Peter looked up with a little too much innocents.

Wade cocked a brow, "You were staring at me."

"What, me?" Peter tried for startled, but it was all wrong, "No, no way, I was just uh..."

"You seriously suck at lying," Wade stated, feeling kinda bad for the kid.

"I'm not lying," he tried, still falling short, "I just saw movement and my eye was attracted. To the movement."

Wade just stared, for the first time understanding how Sitwell must feel when Wade tried to pump him for information. It was just so adorable. And also painfully sad.

"Right," Wade said slowly. And Peter gave an awkward smile, his eyes lingering a little too long on Wade's cheek.

"No seriously dude," Wade tossed his backpack on the bed, "What is it?"

"What is what?"

"Why do you keep staring at me?"

Peter blinked, his face flushing as he hurriedly turned back to his computer, "N-nothing, nothing. No reason, seriously."

"Dude, if you're gonna deflect, have the decency to make it good, at least."

"I'm not--"

" _What._ "

"It's…" Peter seemed torn between actually speaking and climbing through his computer screen to get away from the conversation, "I-I was just looking at your face, that's all, it's nothing, I won't--"

"My face?" Wade asked, startled. Out of everything the guy could've said, that was definitely not on the list.

"W'll, yeah," Peter shrugged, trying not to make eye contact, "I just... I noticed your..." Peter made a motion to half of his face, darting a glance up before focusing back on Wade's jeans, "Your uh... your birthmark. That's all."

"My birthmark?" it had been so long since someone had brought it up, he was almost startled. He touched his face subconsciously, "What, did it mutate while I wasn't looking or something?"

"No," Peter turned back to his computer, finally focusing all his attention on it, "No, I just noticed it. That's all. No big deal."

"Oh," Wade said, still a little bewildered, "Okay."

It was by far the weirdest conversation he'd ever had with another person in his life, and Wade thought that was definitely saying something.

 

+_+

 

_"Hey do you need this?"_

_Clint didn't look up from his report when he responded, "Need what, buddy?"_

_"This file that says Parker," Wade replied, "Looks ominous."_

_Clint's head snapped up, eyes darting from the plain file to his son before asking, "Where did you get that?"_

_"Your room," he replied, immediately handing it over, "It was just sitting on your bed, I figured it was supposed to go with your report."_

_"Thank you," Clint slid the file under his report and continued writing. He could feel Wade watching him, fidgeting._

_"Wade," he said dangerously, refusing to look at the boy, "You didn't."_

_"It wasn't intentional!" Wade blurted immediately, confirming Clint's deepest fears, "I picked it up and it was heavier than I thought it would be and a couple pages fell out..."_

_Clint closed his eyes, despair and anger warring in his chest. He should've never taken the file. It was a mistake. A_ huge _mistake he would not be making again. He'd just wanted a second look, wanted to see the family one more time, try and reconcile them with his son. Convince himself he was doing the right thing by keeping him close a little longer. Natasha had asked to see the file, but Clint had refused, scared she would see what he already knew..._

_"Dad?"_

_Clint looked up at Wade who shrank minutely before straightening, holding his ground, "Are you going to send me to live with them?"_

_The question hit Clint like a physical blow, knocking the air out of his lungs. He opened his mouth to answer, but nothing came out._

_"Because," Wade pressed, taking advantage of Clint's momentary speechlessness, "I mean, they seem like a good family, you know? And they're taking care of their nephew so I would actually have someone my age to, like, talk to and hang out with and stuff. Plus with me starting school in a few months it would be cool to know someone ahead of time right?"_

_Clint closed his mouth and swallowed, looking down and his stupid ass report as he tried to gather his thoughts._

_"Dad?" Wade asked, insecurity lacing his words, "Are you okay?"_

_"I'm fine," but Clint didn't sound fine. His voice rasped and he had to swallow again before he could look up, not sure if he'd buried his emotions deep enough yet. By the look on his son's face he probably hadn't, "How much did you read?"_

_"Just a little," he assured, "To make sure the pages matched up and stuff."_

_Clint nodded, not sure he could speak for a moment. He pulled the file back into view and tapped it before looking back at Wade, "This is classified information. You understand that, right?"_

_"Yes, sir," Wade answered automatically._

_"You not only broke the law, but my confidence by reading it, you understand?"_

_Wade's face paled, but he nodded. Clint stared long and hard at his son, then pushed the file forward._

_"Here," he said, "Read it."_

_"What?" Wade startled._

_"This isn't a decision I can make for you," Clint explained, trying to distance himself as much as possible, "It's something we need to talk about. Together. And I need you to be informed."_

_Clint tried not to throw up as Wade picked up the folder, his eyes bright with excitement._

 

+_+

 

Dinner was a generally muted affair. May and Ben kept the conversation light and moving while Peter all but inhaled his food and Wade picked. Clint kept an eye on his son as the evening wore on until it was finally time for him to go. Wade walked with him to the porch, standing awkwardly until Clint huffed and gave him a hug. Wade clung for a moment longer than necessary before stepping back, his hands drifting to his pockets as he stared at the street.

"So," his son said, aiming for casual.

"You gonna be okay?" Clint asked.

Wade nodded, though a little less enthusiastic than Clint would like, "Yeah, no problem. It's not forever."

Clint's smile was a bit forced, "They're good," he said, it was starting to become a mantra, "You'll be fine. And I'll be here as often as I can. And me and Coulson and Tasha are just a phone call away. If you get in any trouble..."

"Dad," Wade almost laughed, "I'm not going to war, I'm just..." He waved a hand, trying to think of the words, but none came.

"Yeah," Clint replied, understanding anyway, "I know buddy."

There was a moment of silence between them, Wade contemplating the wooden planks under his feet and Clint contemplating when his son got so _big_. Not ten years ago he was giving the kid tickle attacks. Now he was leaving him in the care of strangers while Clint went off to save the world. It was a strange feeling. Clint definitely wouldn't call it pleasant.

"So when's your next mission?" Wade asked out of the blue, looking up at Clint.

"Tomorrow," Clint said, "We're leaving early."

Wade nodded, looking like he wanted to say something more, but instead he plastered a smirk to his face and said, "Couldn't get rid of me fast enough, huh?"

Clint snorted, "Yeah right, kid. You're not getting out that easy."

Wade snorted and Clint gave him one more hug before saying goodbye.

 

+_+

 

_"I've decided," Wade held the file like a shield, his knuckles white on the paper, "I want to live with them."_

_And Clint hadn't known what to do. His first reaction had been a staunch no. There was no way he was giving his boy up to strangers. He was too young to be making this decision anyway, Clint should've never let him have that file. He opened his mouth to say as much, but all that came out was, "Okay."_

_Relief flooded his son's face, his grip on the folder relaxed a fraction and Clint felt like shit. This was what the kid wanted, as much, if not more than Clint wanted it for him. He refused to think about that too hard. How he could've been holding Wade back from everything he wanted, a home, a family, a stable environment, because Clint had refused to let go. Had been convinced he would've ended up in the same situation Clint had found himself in at his age. Orphaned. Alone. Struggling in a world that didn't want or care for you. That wasn't what happened to every kid, Clint knew that, but it happened enough, and that was his worry. Had been his worry._

_His son was a good person. And the Parkers were good people. It wasn't the same and yet he couldn't seem to separate the two. Instead he took the file from Wade with a smile and went to Coulson, knowing if anyone could help him figure this out it was the man he trusted most. As soon as he'd entered the office, his handler had looked up, then quickly stood to help Clint to the couch. Clint hadn't thought it was that bad._

_Apparently it was._

_"What happened?" Coulson asked, his voice calm as he swung around one of his guest chairs to face Clint._

_Clint had held up the file, hoping Coulson would get it. But his handler just took it from him and lightly tossed it on the couch, just out of reach._

_"Barton, talk to me."_

_Clint huffed out a breath, looked at his hands, and spoke. He told Coulson everything: Wade reading the file, Clint's fears and rationalizations, Wade's ultimate decision and Clint's inability to make one of his own. When he was done, he looked at his handler, not knowing what he thought he would see. Pity, maybe. Or judgment. But all he saw beyond the muted expression was compassion._

_Clint sighed, burying his face in his hands, "Am I doing the right thing?" He finally asked, "By letting him do this?"_

_"I think letting him have a say was smart," Coulson conceded, "But this is just as much about you as it is about him."_

_"So I should let him go because my life is too hard?" Clint asked miserably._

_"You're not giving him up, Clint," Coulson reprimanded, "You're giving him a chance. An opportunity to be successful in the path he's chosen. You're always going to be his father, no matter what," Coulson gave a little smirk, "You can't get rid of him that easily. Besides I'm pretty sure Sitwell would never forgive you."_

_Clint laughed, a rush of air no more forceful than the sob it could've been, "You know I think that's the first time you've ever said my name."_

_"Desperate times," Coulson replied gravely. But he didn't apologize. Clint was kinda happy for that._


	10. Budapest

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys are the best ever, seriously. My laptop died and I just got a new one so that is my excuse for how long this has taken. But for real. You guys are amazing. And I am very tired.
> 
> Enjoy :)

It was supposed to be a milk run, far too simple for Clint and Coulson to go on these days, but it was Natasha's first time in the field. On the other side. Working with a team. Fury figured nice and easy would be good, at least to give her a feeling of how to work with the others in tandem. But theory and practice rarely coincided when it came to SHIELD.

Clint noticed it first. He was up high keeping an eye on the gun shipments going in and out when he noticed a second transaction. A scrubby man in coveralls barely looked up when the guard at his shoulder caught his attention. Tentatively, the guard handed over a small package, then hurried away to continue watching over the illegal exports. Scrubby just tucked the package in his pocket and kept welding. Clint called it in, mostly because he'd seen this man many times over the past three days of information gathering but never with the big players, never more than what he looked like: an old man with a limp, greying at the temples, pockmarked face and a wary eye. His appearance was at complete odds with his disregard for a man twice his size with a side arm brazenly shown at his hip and in turn that man's own nervous nature around a seemingly harmless old timer.

Yeah, Clint was suspicious.

It turned out he had every right to be. The man was Victor Laumner, a physicist from Sweden who was discredited after it was learned he'd blatantly stolen work from an up and coming American researcher. Something Foster. Janice or Jen, but that didn't really matter. What did matter was why he was using a gun smuggling operation to smuggle something apparently more nefarious.

"He was working on wormholes," Coulson explained, scrutinizing his laptop as he read the report, "Specifically trying to cross objects from one place to another."

"Sounds pretty far fetched," Clint said skeptically.

"I agree, but that hasn't stopped him from working on it."

"Do we know what the package was?" Natasha asked, still standing close to the door, arms crossed.

"No," Coulson replied, sending a glance her way, "The man hasn't published since the '90s, there's no way to tell how far his work has progressed since then."

"So we're doing this the old fashioned way," Clint surmised.

Coulson nodded, "Another team is coming to watch the gun ring while we follow Laumner."

"Cool," Clint smiled, leaning back in his chair, "This shouldn't be too bad."

 

+_+

 

Wade was too excited to sleep the night before his first day of school. He laid there, trying hard to be still as he listened to Peter breathing in the other bed. The guy slept like a rock, a fact Wade had learned early on and since capitalized on. When he felt his watch vibrate, he slipped from bed, turning off the alarm and pulling on his shoes. It was three in the morning, which made it what? Nine where ever his dad was? Definitely awake at least. What was the harm in giving him a call? His phone was probably off anyway so he could just leave a message, no big deal, and be back in bed by... whenever he got back to bed. He wasn't tired. He'd probably go for a walk...

Wade grabbing his phone off the nightstand and quietly left through the window. He walked a few blocks before dialing the number, hunching his shoulders as he seriously thought about what he was doing. His dad was working. He could be setting up a shot right now, sighting down an arrow, breath steady, fingers loosening, when the damn phone vibrates or god forbid _rings_ and his aim is off and the bad guys know he's there and--

"Hello?"

Wade's steps stuttered.

"Wade?"

"Yeah," Wade tried to regain his composure, "Coulson?"

"Your dad left his phone behind," the Senior Agent said, slightly amused, as if he could tell what Wade was thinking. To be honest, he probably could.

"Right," Wade still felt off kilter, but at least he was sounding a little more put together.

"Everything alright?"

"Yeah," Wade continued walking sticking a hand in his jeans pocket, "Yeah I just wanted to..."

To what? Check in? See how his dad was doing? Tell him he missed him?

Coulson seemed to understand anyway. He gave a little hum and said, "I hear you're starting school tomorrow."

"Yeah well..."

"You nervous?"

Wade let out a gusty sigh as he turned the corner, "I shouldn't be. I mean, this is totally not the scariest thing I've ever done. I once asked May to play hide and seek with me around base and couldn't sleep for like a week."

"That must've been rough."

"Right? But I can't sleep now because I'm going to be in a building surrounded by hormonal teenagers for eight hours five times a week."

"Unless you join a sport," Coulson mused, "Then it could be more."

Wade snorted, "I am _not_ joining a sport."

"Why not?"

"Can you see me playing baseball?" Wade asked incredulously.

"I played baseball."

"You..." Wade ground to a halt once more, " _You_ played baseball? Wait, actually I can totally see that. Were you good?"

"I was fine," a creeping smile seemed to slip into Coulson's voice, "It got me a full ride to college."

"Dude, seriously? Where?"

"Didn't matter. I joined the Army instead."

"What?" Wade whined, "That's bull, you could've had a free education!"

"I'd fallen out of love with the sport by then," Coulson dismissed, "I figured forcing myself to endure something I no longer enjoyed would be worse than being shot at."

"You still think that?"

Coulson seemed to give it some consideration, "I wouldn't change my decision."

Wade snorted again, shaking his head, "You wouldn't."

There was a moment of silence before Wade rounded another corner and asked casually, "How's it going?"

There was a lot in that phrase: How is everyone? Are you safe? When are you coming back? Coulson caught all of it.

"Slow," He replied, "Everyone's fine, but we may be gone longer than we thought."

"So are we talking three weeks? Four?"

"Can't say right now," which was Coulson Speak for _I can't tell you, you know that_. And Wade did. Really. But that didn't make him any less aggravated with the delay.

"Right."

"Hey," Coulson's voice lightened slightly, "One thing at a time, okay kiddo? Your first priority now is school."

Wade couldn't help an actual bark of laughter at that, "I'm pretty sure that's the first time you've ever called me kiddo."

"Desperate times," the Senior Agent replied, but he didn't sound regretful, "I've got to go, Wade."

"Yeah, totally," Wade instantly straightened, even though there was no one around, "Thanks for, y'know, talking to me."

"Any time," Coulson replied, "Don't hesitate to call."

Wade hung up and stared at the Parker's house. He hadn't realized he'd stopped in front of it, but he didn't really care. All of a sudden he was wiped and wasted no time climbing back through the window and curling into bed, nodding off almost instantly.

 

+_+

 

Three weeks later Clint was in the back of a Blackhawk circling the fields of a small suburb, Ercsi, outside Budapest. His eyes scanned the horizon, looking for some sort of barn or warehouse or silo or...

...or abandoned World War Two bomb shelter, that looked promising.

Clint motioned for the pilot to take them down, only getting low enough for a safe drop for Clint, Natasha and the handful of Agents accompanying them. Coulson dropped last, checking his clip and nodding to the pilot who wasted no time taking off once more. Clint checked the team over, watching Coulson do the same, met the Senior Agent's eyes. Coulson gave another curt nod and they were off. Natasha was gone almost immediately, taking the lead while the rest fanned out to follow.

"Clear," Natasha muttered over the com, "I'm at the edge of the clearing."

"Sitrep," Coulson responded quietly, the rest of the team moving quietly through the woods.

"No movement from the bunker."

Coulson caught Clint's eye and jerked his head, "Hawkeye's heading your way, Widow."

"Copy."

Clint slipped into the trees, silently making it to Natasha's side. She nodded and Clint spoke, "In position."

There was a moment of silence, then, "You're green."

"Let's go," Natasha murmured, slipping into the clearing and moving swiftly to the side of the bunker, Clint right on her heals. The solid metal door pulled open immediately, sending alarms all through Clint until they entered, guns and bow drawn. Whoever owned the bunker had turned it into a storm cellar at some point. There were old blankets folded neatly on a rusted, slightly mildewed bed, boxes of cans and preserves, a bag of potatoes starting to sprout in the corner...

Clint would've called the whole thing a bust if he hadn't caught the boot prints in the dust. He caught Nat's attention, shifting his arrow point to the shelf the tracks led to. It felt nostalgically old school when Natasha felt along until she found a specific jar to turn, letting the door swing open with a quiet whoosh. The screaming was a little less nostalgic.

"Get away from it!"

“Doctor I need to check your cut.”

Natasha raised an eyebrow, slipping through the door with Clint covering her six. They came out on a catwalk above a large room, filled with machinery and a very scared looking group of men, standing behind their apparent leader who seemed to be placating a bleeding scientist. The scientist, Laumner, seemed to be waving something around, sending the others back another step. It looked like a hand mirror to Clint, only more high tech, and it didn't seem to be reflecting anything...

Natasha was reporting Coulson in so Clint shifted to get a better view. Only the leader lunged for Laumner's mirror at the same moment, sending the scientist stumbling backwards. Laumner slashed the mirror wildly at the air and...

Clint had no way to describe what happened next. In his report he could only say a hole appeared and the group of men was diminished by four, including their leader. There was a pregnant pause when the hole ( _the rip in the fabric of space, holy God_ ) sealed itself back together almost immediately, then two feet from where the first crack opened, a second split spat out the four missing men, horrifyingly altered. Their limbs were red and black, skin falling off in great chunks as they lunged for the others, screaming in ruined throats, terrible growths swelling on their necks and faces even as Clint watched in horror. The ruined men rushed the group, reaching forward to tear them apart. Clint shot without thinking, taking one down and rising to his full height to get a better shot. Natasha vaulted the railing, shooting another monster before dogging another portal which sucked in two more men, spitting them out a moment later 8 feet away, dead and still bleeding form every orifice. Clint's stomach churned menacingly as he swung himself over the rail and down to the floor. He shot something looking vaguely like a flesh toned mouth with arms (apparently what came out of the neck cysts) and turned to the rest of the room, looking for Natasha or Laumner or anyone who wasn't a humanoid killing machine.

"Barton, report," Coulson demanded over the comms and Clint couldn't help his gut reaction of, "Don't come in! Repeat, do not--"

There was a pressure on his front, as if someone had wrapped him in a blanket and jerked backward. Clint met Natasha's eyes across the room, recognized her horror, and fell hard onto sand. He was on his feet again immediately, crouched low, only to see red. Everything, the sand, the mountains in the distance, the sky, was all red. The wind was shockingly cold and when Clint looked up, all he could see were fragments--

The tug came back, throwing him to the cement and knocking the air out of his lungs. Clint gasped, choking as he tried to breathe only to have his lungs spasm, rejecting the air before it was fully inhaled. He could feel his throat swelling, his heart hammering against his ribs, his eyes beginning to water as he fought to breathe.

"Clint!"

Clint wrenched over, grabbing the black lapel of a well tailored suit before he realized who it was. Coulson looked worried, which was saying a lot for the usually stoic agent. His lips were thin and he seemed to be checking Clint over. Clint wanted to protest, wanted to tell the stupid man to get out before another portal appeared, sucking them all into another hell. But as soon as he opened his mouth he gagged, holding on as he retched something thick and black all over the floor.

"Call Medical!" Coulson shouted, wrapping an arm around Clint and hauling him to his feet. Clint passed out before they made it three steps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All mistakes are completely mine and should be reported because that shit is embarrassing in all the wrong ways yo.


	11. Life is a Five Letter Word

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, thank you, thank you, once more to the fantastic, the beautiful, the mysterious Shazrolane for the beta, and thank you, thank you, thank you, to my Esteemed Stalker (TM), ephinee, for poking me every once in a while to get this story moving right along and thank YOU, Dear Reader, for putting up with my sporadic updates and crazy ideas.
> 
> Yes I mean you.
> 
> No really, just you.
> 
> Thank you.

Wade was not prepared. He would never be prepared. In fact, he was so under prepared he should drop out, give up this dream of high school nonsense and flee the country. Maybe become a nun. Dudes can become nuns, right?

"Wade," a heavy hand landed on his shoulder and it took everything Wade had not to throw the offender over his shoulder and run. But it was just Peter, and actions like that were frowned upon in polite society.

"You okay?" Peter asked, looking skeptical.

"Yeah I'm fine," Wade smiled, looking back at the building, "Why wouldn't I be?"

"Uh," Pete seemed to hesitate, "Dude, you've been standing out here for like five minutes."

"What?" Wade blinked, looking around to the now empty space around him. Pete slapped his shoulder again, "C'mon, I'll show you to your home room. Kostyak, right?"

"Um," Wade let Pete nudge him through the door and into the building already swarming with kids and laughter and so many foreign things-- Wade thought his head would combust. He dazedly followed the other boy down a hall, around a corner, up a flight of stairs and into the first room on the left. It looked like a mariachi band threw up everywhere and instantly Wade felt for whoever the poor saps had been. No one could survive that much offensive bullshit.

"Hola!" A tall skinny man waved from the front of the room, standing to shake Wade's hand, "Mi nombre es Sr. Kostyak."

"Uh," Wade took the man's hand gingerly, "Wade."

"Wade Wilson," Peter chimed in, "He's the transfer from Iowa."

Wade seriously disliked going by that name. He disliked even more holding this teacher's hand and let go as soon as the man's grip relaxed. There was just something wrong with his eyes. They were too big.

"Well Wade," Sr. Kostyak smiled, all bright teeth, "Welcome to Midtown High."

Wade smiled weakly, glancing at Peter who just jerked his thumb to the left over his shoulder, "I'm two classes down, so I'll see you at lunch, okay?"

"Yeah," Wade felt icicles grow sharp and angry in his stomach as he watched the one person he knew walk away.

"Your seat is right here," Sr. Kostyak lead Wade to a seat in the second row, close to the door. Small miracles; at least he could bolt easily if this became too much.

"Do you have your schedule?"

"Huh? Oh," Wade dug around in his small backpack until he found the tightly folded paper in the bottom. Sr. Kostyak plucked it from his grasp, opening the small paper to get a better look.

"I see you don't have a language, Mr. Wilson," he observed, starting to sound like one of the Junior Agents catching him roaming the halls of SHIELD unsupervised. Okay this Wade could handle.

"I tested out," he explained, keeping his voice respectful.

"Tested out," Kostyak deadpanned.

"Yes, Sir."

"What language?"

"French."

"Really?"

"Yes, Sir."

Kostyak took a good long look at Wade before shrugging with a smile, handing back his schedule, "Congratulations, the French teachers here are terribly American about it anyway."

Wade had no idea what that was supposed to mean and the bell rang before he could ask.

 

~~~

“I’m done,” Wade slumped into the open chair next to Peter in the lunch room, dropping his backpack next to him and thumping his head on the table. He'd only been through three classes and he could already feel himself getting twitchy. The teachers were too cheerful, and everyone kept _staring_ at him. Moving on base had been less stressful than this. At least there he could hide, “I’m dropping out and never coming back. Jumping off a bridge is easier than this. Car chases. Escaping _SHIE_ —“

“Wade,” Peter said sharply.

Wade looked up, confused, then gaping. There were three other kids at the table, all staring at him as if he’d grown another head. One of them had a bit of cheese on the side of his face.

“Uh,” Wade said haltingly, his face flushing, “Hi. Um. You’ve got…” he motioned to his mouth with a finger.

The kid ducked his head to wipe his mouth as Peter said, “Guys, this is Wade, the kid I was telling you about. Wade, this is Mary Jane Watson, Harry Osborne, and Gwen Stacy.”

“Hi,” Wade said again.

“Hey,” Gwen replied, looking him over, her eyes lingering on his face for a moment before she turned away to continue eating. Mary Jane smiled and Harry’s face burned as he pointedly fought to not look up at Wade. Wade caught Peter’s eye and raised an eyebrow, but Peter just rolled his eyes and shrugged, digging back into his burger.

“So,” Wade said slowly, trying to fight the awkward moment slowly taking hold, “How’s classes?”

Gwen gave a derisive snort and launched into a tirade of some sort about… yeah something. Wade thought it might have to do with history, the words “white washing” were used, but honestly it was all over Wade’s head so he just pretended to listen politely. A glance around the table told him this was a conversation everyone else had heard before.

“So Pete told us you’re from Iowa?” Mary Jane cut Gwen off apparently to everyone’s relief.

“Yeah,” Wade wished he’d gotten food now; he wanted to something to fiddle with so he pulled out a pen, “Well, Iowa was the last place, my dad and I moved around a lot.”

“Really?” Mary Jane leaned forward, “Where else have you lived?”

“Mostly Europe,” Wade shrugged, pulling the pen apart, “Dad traveled around a lot for his job.”

“That’s so cool!” Gwen scooted closer to hear, “What countries have you been to?”

“Uh,” Wade looked between the two girls, slightly intimidated, unconsciously putting the pen back together and taking it apart again. He looked at Peter who said helpfully, “You went to Italy, right?”

“Yeah,” Wade nodded, remembering what Coulson had told him the night before, _One thing at a time_. Keep it simple, that was the first rule of any lie, “We weren’t there long, though. Mostly we were in Poland.”

Gwen scrunched her nose, “What’s in Poland?”

“Nothing,” Wade laughed, trying to emulate his father’s easy chuckle. It made him a little homesick, but he pressed the feeling down.

“So, like, you can speak Polish?” Mary Jane asked skeptically.

“A little,” Wade shrugged, “Enough to ask for a bathroom.”

The girls laughed and Harry rolled his eyes.

“What’s your next class?” Gwen asked, standing with her tray.

“Oh,” Wade stood slightly to get his schedule out of his back pocket. The paper was wrinkled and smudged now, but he could still make out, “AP English Lit.”

“Cool,” She smiled, “You’re in class with me and Pete.”

“Awesome man,” Peter slapped Wade’s back as he stood too, “I’ll show you where it is, come on.”

And Wade, with an empty stomach and nothing better to do, followed. He wasn't that hungry anyway.

 

~~~

 

School actually started to look up after that. It turned out Wade had a lot of classes with Peter and his friends, all except MJ ( _call me Mary Jane again, Wade, I swear_ ) who he ended up walking to his last class with anyway because hers was right next door. He called Sitwell to try to get any information about his dad, but after a week and a half of “Classified”s Sitwell finally informed Wade the mission was radio silent. Apparently something very interesting was taking place and the Director was making the mission eyes only.

“I’m sorry, kid,” Sitwell said, sounding pained, “I can’t give you any more until they’re back.”

“Yeah,” Wade rubbed his eyes, “No problem. Could you call me when they get back?”

“I’ll try,” because Sitwell never made promises he couldn’t keep. Wade nodded as if the Agent could see him and hung up. He looked around the corner to make sure he wasn’t caught using his phone in school (a big no no he hadn’t foreseen, apparently if you really needed to make a call you could use the office’s land line, no exceptions. It was probably the stupidest rule Wade had ever heard in his life) and had it snatched from his hand.

“Nice phone,” the kid said, looking it over before shoving it in his pocket. Wade distantly thought the kid’s name was Flash or something, but he wasn’t in any of the guy’s classes so he wasn’t totally sure.

“Dude, what the hell? Give it back.”

“Why?” Flash asked in mock innocence, “Waiting on a call from your mommy?"

Wade rolled his eyes, refusing to be goaded, “My mom’s dead, jackass. Give me the damn phone.”

“Aww are you going to cry?”

Wade stared at the kid, having a hard time believing this was actually happening.

“This is the best you can do?” Wade asked, “Really? I mean, people call you Flash, so what, did you get pantsed in elementary school or something?”

There was a snort behind Wade and Flash’s face darkened, “They call me Flash because I’m fast,” he said, quiet and deadly. Well. _Flash's_ version of deadly. Wade had the feeling his version and other people's versions were on very different levels.

“Uh huh,” Wade nodded, as if that made perfect sense, and had the kid on the ground, face smashed into the linoleum, arm jerked behind his back in a second. Flash gasped, struggling as Wade took back his phone and let him up, checking it over while Flash scrambled to his feet.

“Don’t take my stuff again,” Wade said, adopting the voice Coulson occasionally used when his father had neglected his paperwork again. An order and a reprieve. One last chance.

Flash glared as the bell rang, and Wade was almost swore he heard him say, “This isn’t over,” as he pushed past, but that was too cliche even for Wade, so he must've imagined it.

 

~~~

 

Turns out Wade’s life _was_ a made for TV movie. Or a terrible after school special. Either way he now had a bully, friends, no life after school, and a love interest.

Actually scratch that. There was no love interest. None what so ever. There wasn’t even a sports team Wade joined to suck at. So yes. Bully. Friends. No love interest. No sports ball.

So Wade could be going a little crazy.

May talked to him about joining photography with Peter, but that wasn’t really appealing. Instead he got out of school, did his homework, and stared at the ceiling. The lack of activity reminded him of Siedlce, where he was basically locked in an apartment all day to watch terrible cartoons. At least then he’d had his dad’s equipment when he got bored, now he didn’t even have a pocket knife (turns out you’re not supposed to have those in school either). He’d already broken into Pete’s computer a few times (apparently he had a pretty big crush on Gwen, little did she know), and mowed the lawn. As far as he could tell that was the extent of an average teenager’s activities. Man, normal people were _boring_.

So Wade decided to go outside the box.

“You have to be 18 or older to get in, kid,” the grungy bouncer scowled down his broken nose.

“No worries,” Wade said easily, producing his fake ID ( _”You use this for anything other than it’s intended purpose, kid—“ “I know Sitwell, my head on a platter, body never found, I got it.”_ ), “I’ve got a baby face.”

The bouncer snorted, snatching the ID and checking it over. Wade tried to give him his most winning smile to apparently no affect. Finally the bouncer nodded and let him in. Wade swung his gym bag higher on his shoulder and walked through. Honestly he was a little less than impressed. He’d figured a fighter’s gym would have, like, cement floors and chains from the ceiling. A bunch of guys on steroids pumping three times their body weight and some guy pointing at Wade and saying, “You,” in a low menacing roar. Instead it looked very much like the gym at SHIELD. Well, there was no rope course hanging two stories high, but nobody was perfect. Wade deflated slightly, but soldiered on, picking a bench against an unmirrored wall and pulling on his gloves. He figured he’d go a few rounds with a punching bag, maybe run a few sprints or something, just enough to take the edge off. Everyone was ignoring him anyway, he was pretty sure he wouldn’t be able to get in the ring or anywhere near it for that matter so—

“ _This_ is where you wanted to get into?” Sitwell asked, sitting heavily next to Wade and adjusting his shoes. Wade took a moment to make sure he hadn’t actually shat himself before responding.

“I don’t know, I think it has its perks,” he shrugged looking around, “Studly dude men, women who can tear my arms off, it almost feels like home.”

Sitwell snorted.

“So what are you doing here?”

“Making sure you don’t hurt yourself,” Sitwell responded, standing, “Sprints first?”

Wade smiled and nodded. Training with Sitwell really did make the gym feel like home. He wasn’t allowed a break for the first twenty minutes. He was up and down the mat so much his head spun. He went through rounds of hurdles, push-ups, punching bag, then right back to sprints. Wade hadn’t been this sore since Agent May made him run suicides after the Egg Incident. It was _awesome_. When Sitwell finally let him come up for air an hour later, Wade was pretty sure he was going to be down for a week.

“You’ve gotten slower,” Sitwell told him, sounding a little disappointed as he stood over Wade.

Wade shrugged, still trying to catch his breath, “Well you know,” he said from his spot on the floor, “School.”

Sitwell grunted, unamused, but helped Wade to his feet.

“Thanks for coming out,” Wade said, following the older man to his bag.

“Good thing I did,” he replied, “Your form is horrible.”

Wade snorted and said again with more sarcasm, “Thanks.”

They packed up and walked out together, Sitwell leading them to his car to take Wade home. The drive was silent, almost easy with the light traffic, so it felt almost natural to ask, “How are they?”

Nothing outwardly changed in Stiwell’s appearance. His hands didn’t tighten, his eyes didn’t flicker, his lips didn’t thin. Yet Wade knew, without a shadow of a doubt something very bad had happened.

“Is it—“

“This is your stop,” Stiwell pulled to the curb and raised an eyebrow, as if impatient for Wade to leave. Wade opened his mouth, wanting to ask, wanting it to not be as bad as it could very well be. His stomach pitched as he snapped his mouth shut. This was Agent Sitwell. The guy could be tortured within an inch of his life and he wouldn’t let a thing spill. He was one of the best, and Wade knew it. Silently he slid from the car and watched it pull away. Distantly, Wade wondered if Sitwell lived close by. As distractions went it was probably the weakest he'd ever come up with.

“Wade?”

Wade turned to Ben at the door, looking a little worried, “You coming in?”

“Yeah,” he said, turning away from the road, heart cold and fears buried deep.

There was nothing he could do anyway.

 

~~~

 

The next day Wade had a hard time focusing. The world looked grey and nothing was worth noticing. Even when Flash shoved him against a locker Wade couldn’t bring himself to care, he just took it and continued on to class. Five hours went by like a blur, giving Wade little to acknowledge save lunch.

“Hey you okay, man?” Peter asked as they walked to AP Lit.

“Yeah, just got a lot on my mind,” Wade smiled, patting Pete on the shoulder before finding his seat and effectively tuning out the rest of his day. Fury would let Wade know if something happened to his dad, right? That had to be in some sort of contract his father had signed when he was effectively given himself over to SHIELD. Wade knew he was his father’s only family. There was a brother somewhere, but Wade was pretty sure he was in prison or something. Maybe the military. Natasha was the only other person close enough to their little unit, but with her on the same mission… Wade’s eyes burned at the idea he could lose his whole family in one fail swoop. It had always been a possibility, but now, with the actual fear hanging over him…

“Wade?”

Wade snapped to attention, focusing on Mrs. Burns at the front of the room.

“You’ve been called to the office,” she said, “Pack up your things.”

Wade went on auto pilot, throwing everything haphazardly in his backpack before standing jerkily to his feet and making his way out of the room. Pete and Gwen watched him go, but he refused to make eye contact. This was it. This was the moment. He turned the corner, fully expecting some unknown agent to pick him up and drive him to headquarters, to see a dead body, or have Fury tell him there was nothing left to bury.

Instead he saw Coulson, standing casually by the front office. Wade nearly stopped in his tracks. Instead he ran the last couple feet, sliding in front of Coulson and nearly toppling over if the Agent hadn’t reached out and grabbed his elbow.

“Slow down,” he said, but to Wade it was less a reprimand and more like the most glorious sound he’d ever heard.

“Where is he?” Wade asked, looking behind Coulson as if his father would be crouching behind the other man.

“In medical,” Coulson replied.

That had Wade stopping, “He’s okay though right? Nothing too bad just a few cuts and scrapes--”

“Let’s talk in the car.”

Wade’s jaw clicked shut as Coulson led the way. His heart was hammering again, but he forced himself to stay calm until they were on the road.

“So?” Wade pressed.

Coulson merged into traffic, “We believe your father was exposed to a neurotoxin. We’re not sure about the long term effects, but for now it has limited his lung capacity to thirty five percent.”

Wade stared for a moment at Coulson, then out the window, “Okay. So what does this mean?”

“So far it means he’s bed ridden and on oxygen,” he explained, “But we’re still trying to find an antidote, and his condition is stable.”

“For now?” Wade asked.

“For now,” Coulson concurred. Wade was silent for the rest of the ride to headquarters. Coulson pulled into the underground garage and parked. Wade moved to get out, but Coulson stopped him with a hand on his arm. The man looked pale and Wade automatically expected he’d left something out. His dad was missing a leg. He would never shoot again. SHIELD was turning them out because his father was no longer useful.

“We will find out what’s wrong with him,” Coulson said, his eyes and voice steady and certain, “I promise.”

Wade gulped, his eyes stinging again, and stepped out of the car.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *wrings hands frantically*


	12. Keep It to Yourself

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys are the best. Like, hands down the most patient folks this side of consciousness for real.
> 
> I know that doesn't make sense. Don't judge me, I'm a every tired explosion. And that was a bad joke.
> 
> Thank you to Shaz because she's a Queen like whoa, and Ephi because she sends me energy and enthusiasm through her comments alone, and EVERYONE ELSE WHO HAS BEEN LEAVING COMMENTS HI HEY HELLO I TRUELY APPRECIATE ALL OF YOU SO MUCH THANK YOU AND JUST KNOW I'VE READ YOUR COMMENT EVEN IF I DIDN'T RESPOND BECAUSE I AM FILLED WITH TOO MUCH JOY AND I HAVEN'T CALIBRATED THIS NEW COMPUTER TO SHOOT CONFETTI BOMBS AT YOU YET.
> 
> ACTUALLY I'M PRETTY SURE THAT TECHNOLOGY ISN'T AVAILABLE.
> 
> WHY AM I STILL SCREAMING?
> 
> Ahem. So yes, enjoy the chapter. :)

Natasha Romanov doesn't understand family. She understands orders, she understands strike teams, she understands going in with a group of people you barely know, and going in by yourself with no way out but your own instincts. Natasha Romanov isn't a woman of faith, exactly, but of practicality. It wasn't practical to trust anyone as far as you could throw them. It was practical to keep your eyes open and your feet moving until _you_ knew the coast was clear. Anyone feeding you that type of information was probably far away and full of bullshit. Natasha knew it was rare for _anything_ to go according to plan.

Budapest was proof of that.

She watched Clint's prone form, covered in wires and tubes, bags slowly dripping and mask barely fogging as air was pressed into his lungs. He looked so small in the bed. Not relaxed, but still young. There were ridges in his forehead, as if he was thinking and worried. It made Natasha want to lean forward and smooth it all away, to whisper in his ear that Laumner was dead, Wade was on his way and he could relax. Sleep.

But Natasha Romanov was not a fan of lying. Just because it was her job didn't mean she enjoyed it in her personal life. Sometimes the truth hurt worse anyway. The truth was she had no idea where they'd taken Laumner. She hadn't asked and Coulson hadn't offered. She could find out later anyway, if she wanted. If Clint didn't get better and she needed to let off some steam. Right now, however, she sat, emanating calm stillness as she listened to the constant beep of the heart monitor, recognizing it as a sign of life.

Clint Barton wasn't family. But he was the closest she'd had in a long time.

There was a muted knock on the door, followed slowly by Wade, dirty blond hair falling in his eyes, birthmark stark against his pale skin.

“Hey, Aunt Tasha," he stepped into the room, eyes going from her face to his father's body, tracking the rise and fall of his chest.

"He'll be okay," she said, holding out an arm for him, " _Malyutka_ , come here."

Wade mutely walked to her side, standing by her chair as she gave him a one armed hug. He rested a hand on her opposite shoulder, his eyes never leaving his father. Natasha could feel Coulson hesitating by the door, heard the scuff of his shoe as he turned to leave.

"What's the word?" Wade asked.

"Too soon to tell," Natasha said, "His breathing is getting better, but still not where they'd like it."

"What happened?" Natasha was positive he hadn't meant to ask, especially when he followed it up with, "Just make something up."

Natasha huffed through her nose, a small tick making her lip rise, "I bet him he couldn't chain smoke for three days straight."

Wade snorted, "Okay, that's a terrible one, even for you."

Natasha shrugged, not bothered in the least, "How's school?"

"School is school," Wade said noncommittally, "I've already had, like, five tests and it isn't even midterms."

"How do you like the Parkers?"

"They're good people."

"And Peter?"

Natasha noted the hesitation, but nothing more. Wade lifted a shoulder casually, "Petery."

There was a moment of silence as they watched Clint's vitals, "How long has he been out?"

"A while," Natasha said. Wade nodded, "Do they know when he'll wake up?"

"No."

Wade nodded again.

"Here," Natasha stood from her chair, leading Wade to sit, "I'm going to freshen up. Have you eaten?"

"Not since lunch."

"I'll be back," she gave the boy a small squeeze on his shoulder and left, going the opposite direction of her quarters.

 

+_+

 

Phil could barely concentrate. He felt more than saw his hands shaking over his papers, but did nothing to stop it. He was going on hour 38 which wasn't exactly unusual, but definitely not the norm. He saw the rip again, Clint's unconscious reach for Natasha so far across the room, Natasha sliding to the spot he had only been moments before. She'd looked around, wildly, eyes landing first on Coulson, then the scientist.

Phil wasn't sure what happened next (he was completely sure what happened next. It was never going in any report he was writing), but by the time he made it to the floor Natasha was the only one standing, holding Laumner by his neck, her face dark.

"Take him," she snapped, throwing Laumner to the agents following Phil down the steps.

"Careful," Phil warned, taking the device before it could go off again and gently handing it to another agent, "Do not swing this."

Agent Murray nodded, face pale as she handled the small object. Phil turned to Natasha as the portal opened again, spitting Clint eight feet away. He didn't remember moving after that. Clint was grabbing his shirt, eyes wild as he choked on his own tongue. The black bile smelled rank, but Phil hadn’t noticed past the color, its consistency, and the way it puddled and fumed on the ground. It was clinical. Detached. Anything else and Phil would start shooting. He hauled Clint to the surface, laying him on the ground as the chopper touched down. Two hospitals and 18 hours later, Clint was in a medically induced coma and Phil was hiding in his office.

He couldn’t lie to himself, he knew exactly what he was doing.

“May I come in?”

Phil looked up from his desk at Natasha still hesitating with her hand on the door.

“Agent Romanov,” Phil smoothed on a courteous smile and motioned to the couch, “I didn’t hear you knock.”

“I didn’t,” She replied, closing the door firmly behind her. She didn’t sit.

“How can I help you?”

“I want to know your intentions in regards to Clint Barton.”

Phil blinked, his lips parting for a millisecond before he answered, “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

“I’m afraid you do.”

Phil pressed his lips together, setting down his pen and clasping his hands on top of his desk, “Agent Romanov, I’m not sure what you’re referring to, but I can assure you I have no intentions beyond the professional when it comes to Agent Barton.”

Natasha watched him for all of a second before a knowing smile crept onto her features. Phil resolutely did not react. There was no way she could tell anything. Phil had buried any _hint_ of an _idea_ of anything even _pertaining_ to what she was referring to so deeply he was pretty sure it was squashed completely. He refused to even think the words. Instead he thought of Clint’s eyes, dazed and panicked as he fought to breathe.

“How is he?” it was out of his mouth before he could stop.

“The same,” Natasha replied, finally taking a seat, “How are you?”

“Me?”

“You’ve been awake a long time.”

“I’ve survived longer.”

“I’m sure,” she picked a small thread on the arm, “I’m just trying to figure out why you haven’t gone home yet.”

“I have—“

“Nothing that can’t wait until tomorrow,” her eyes slid from the thread to Phil and he suddenly knew the meaning of pinned with a stare. Even the thought of shifting suddenly felt like a bad idea, “Debrief isn’t until 0800. That gives you plenty of time to go home, eat, sleep…”

Phil gave Natasha a patient smile, “Thank you for the consideration, but I have plenty to catch up on.”

“Nothing you can’t take home with you,” she pointed out.

“I’d much rather just get it done here,” Phil went back to shuffling paperwork, trying to find something to distract himself.

Natasha studied Phil, “He’s never been hurt this badly, has he?”

“Of course he has,” Phil didn’t look back up from his paperwork, “He’s been through much worse.”

“But not at SHIELD. Not under your care.”

Phil hesitated, pen poised, “No. Not under my care.”

The way Natasha huffed made him feel like he’d admitted everything. He didn’t look up when he said, “He’s a great man. A loyal friend, an excellent father, and the best Agent I’ve met in a long time.”

Now he met Natasha’s eyes, trying to put as much weight into the words as he could, “I would hate to lose any of that.”

She nodded, her eyes a little softer as she stood, “Go see him. Wade at least will appreciate the company.”

“Where are you going?”

“To Fury,” her hand was on the door, “See if the scientist has said anything yet.”

The door clicked behind her, quiet and final. Phil looked back down at his work, but there was no point. He sighed, rubbing his eyes and pushing away from his desk, grabbing his tablet at the last moment. The least he could do was make a coffee run. Maybe pick something up from the mess. He grabbed two turkey sandwiches without thinking, figuring he could keep the other if he got hungry again. But a moment later he was outside Clint’s room, watching Wade snooze at his father’s elbow while The Golden Girls yelled mutely in the background. He hesitated just long enough to think _fuck it_ , then silently walked to the boy’s side. Wade looked up groggily when Phil touched his shoulder, accepting the sandwich silently before Phil said, “You want to lay down?”

Wade shook his head, unwrapping the sandwich before rubbing sleep from his eyes, “‘M fine.”

“Okay.”

Phil pulled in another chair and sat, “How are you holding up?”

“Fine,” Wade said again, picking at the bread, “Dad’s hemoglobin or something is low, so they’re going to give him a few transfusions and see what that does.”

Phil nodded, mentally making a note to talk to Clint’s doctor, “I called the Parker’s to let them know where you are.”

“Thanks.”

“Do you have any homework?”

“No.”

Phil gave Wade a look to which he got an eye roll in return, “It’s hard to focus on homework when your dad is dying.”

“He’s not dying.”

“Sick then. It doesn’t matter. I can’t focus.”

“It’s all right,” Phil said, “Just eat your sandwich.”

Wade obliged, wolfing it down after the first bite. They stayed in companionable silence for two more Golden Girls episodes before it became glaringly apparent Wade was dead on his feet and Phil made the executive decision to commandeer the second bed in the room to make the kid lay down. Wade fought until his head hit the pillow, falling asleep faster than his father did at times, and much more soundly. Phil set his chair between the two beds and pulled out his tablet. He didn’t get much work done, but he didn’t really care.

 

+_+

 

This had to be the worst hangover of Clint’s life. The constant thump in his head was what ultimately woke him to a dim room in a hospital. He would recognize that scent anywhere. He could feel himself breathing harshly through his nose and his throat felt like fire when he tried to swallow. His movements were slow, his hands too weak to do more than smack the tube in his nose. He tried to groan but it came out a gust of breath. At least he was breathing normally again. He wondered how long he’d been out.

“Don’t speak,” Coulson’s voice was warm and rough from lack of sleep, “I’ll call a nurse.”

Clint let out another puff of air, stalking the Senior Agent with his eyes around the room. After the nurse left, muttering Clint was looking better, but still needed to stay on bed rest for a few more days, Coulson slid his chair to Clint’s side, a comfortable distance away.

“How…” Clint dragged in a breath, fighting to get his lungs to expand, “How… lo…”

“You’ve been out for four days,” Coulson replied.

“Lau…” Clint smacked his lips, “Laum…”

“Buried in the Sandbox.”

Clint nodded, taking one more sweep around the room. He gazed at the rumpled bed next to him, then Coulson, questioningly, “You…?”

Coulson shook his head, “Wade. He’s been staying here at night.”

Clint gave the Senior Agent a scandalized look. Coulson just smiled one of his half smiles, “He’s fine. He’s at school right now. And before you ask, he’s been doing well, apparently having the whole high school experience.”

“Wha…” what does that mean, was what he wanted to say, but it was getting harder to think. He was still having trouble getting air even with the tube, so he gave up, just for a second, and closed his eyes. 

“Are you in any pain?” Coulson asked softly.

Clint shook his head, because he wasn’t. Not really. He figured this was what it was like having really bad asthma. Maybe just after an attack. He all the sudden felt terrible for anyone who had to do this regularly. It was horrible for him just as a one time deal, but _knowing_ it would happen again. _Expecting_ it. That sounded like a pretty shitty way to live.

“Go back to sleep,” Coulson said, “You’re coming off some heavy meds.”

Clint had a vivid flashback of a cement floor, tears burning his vision, his throat feeling like it was about to explode, hands on his tac vest, and without think reached for Coulson’s wrist, cracking his eyes open long enough to give him a questioning look. Clint knew he probably wasn’t going to have another attack, but he didn’t want to be alone either. Just in case.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Coulson promised, gently pulling Clint’s hand off. Clint rolled his fingers to clasp Coulson’s, closing his eyes once more. He didn’t give a shit how touchy feely it was. His usually acute spacial awareness was all but gone right now and he needed the knowledge, the actual _feel_ of someone else in the room. To remind him he wasn’t fucked. To remind him he was among friends. And holding Coulson’s hand…

Well it made Clint breathe a little easier.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm thinking of renaming this story.... Got any ideas?


	13. Age: 15, Things Buried

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So a lot happened in the last month(s) for me. Some of it wasn't good, some of it was even worse BUT! It's all over now, and we should be back to smooth(ish) sailing... It also helps a couple of the next chapters will be movie based so while they may be ( _may_ be) shorter, they'll also be a bit easier to churn out. Super Thanks Shout Out to my Godesses Shaz and Ephi and thanks to Jenna for offering up the alternate title "DILF and Son".
> 
> I'm not doing that to myself but a damn well appreciated it. :)
> 
> Anyway, back to the story...

It was another week before Clint was released from Medical. He was given instructions to keep up his PT ( _“But don’t over do it Barton, I’m serious.” “Yeah, Doc.”_ ), stay off the range ( _“What? No!” “Agent Romanoff?” “I’ll make sure he’s good, Doc.” “Tasha…”_ ), and use his prescribed inhaler as needed ( _“I’ll make sure he does it.” “Aw come on, boss—“ “Thank you, Agent Coulson.”_ ). Clint, for obvious reasons, wasn’t happy. His team, for more obvious reasons, didn’t care.

“I think it would also be best for you to stay with a friend while you recuperate,” Doctor Charles added as Clint pulled on a shirt.

“I don’t need a babysitter,” Clint replied, leaning over to tie up his boots.

“I agree,” Charles acknowledged, “I also know how much you love Medical and all we do for you,” Clint snorted, unable to help himself, “But I think it would be easier for everyone involved if you also did your PT outside scheduled appointments.” The _because you won’t show up_ was unspoken, but heavily implied.

“We’ll work something out,” Coulson answered for everyone. Clint rolled his eyes, but didn’t say anything. Charles looked satisfied for the time being and left to retrieve the discharge papers.

“No,” Natasha said as soon as the door closed.

“Jesus, Nat, don’t rush or anything,” Clint joked.

“I figured he’d stay with me, anyway.”

Clint whipped his head around to Coulson, “Wait, what?”

Coulson cocked an eyebrow, “Unless you want to stay with the Parkers?”

Clint closed his mouth, face set in a grim line.

“Then I’m your best bet,” Coulson shrugged. Clint wanted to argue, wanted to tell Coulson he was fine, he’d do the damn PT himself, he’d ask—

The thought stuck in his head. Because he couldn’t well ask Wade to move back home when he’d just gotten settled, and he was loath to take up the Parker’s hospitality, though he knew they’d probably take him in. Clint thought of the last few days, Coulson’s quiet hesitation around him and the new tension Clint couldn’t quite identify between himself and his handler. They weren’t fighting, obviously, though it was the first thought that popped into Clint’s mind, and it wasn’t awkward exactly, just different. Like finding your footing after an earthquake.

“Fine,” Clint gritted, sending both of Coulson’s eyebrows up. The Senior Agent looked over Clint’s head to Natasha, “That was easier than I thought.”

Natasha hummed, but Clint decided not to meet her eyes for fear he’d have to defend a (for once) logical decision. He didn’t want to dig too deep. He was sure no one else wanted to either.

 

~~~

 

Wade looked at his paper, a happy swoop leaping from his stomach to his throat, “This is the best day ever.”

He turned around in his seat to look at Gwen behind him, “Dude, look at this.”

Gwen brushed the paper away, still looking over hers. Wade held it out to Pete, two seats back diagonally, who took it, passing his own to Wade.

“What is this?” Wade looked over Pete’s paper, then looked up. Peter was holding out Wade’s paper, trying to hand it back. Wade wasn’t even sure he’d actually looked at it.

“Peter, what the hell?” Wade asked, shaking the sheaf at his friend, “Did you even work on this last night?”

“Let me see.”

“No!” Peter dropped Wade’s paper, trying to grab his from Gwen, but she just turned away, flipping through the measly one and a half pages. Wade picked up Gwen’s to give it a look.

“Pete, why didn’t you tell me you needed help?” she asked, turning back. Peter snatched it from her grasp, stuffing it deep into his backpack.

“I didn’t,” Peter said, not making eye contact.

“Uh, clearly you did,” Wade replied, handing back Gwen’s work and stooping over to grab his from the floor.

“Just don’t worry about it okay?” Pete asked, slouching low.

Wade opened his mouth to say something else, but the bell rang and with speed Wade had never seen him exhibit before, Peter was gone. Wade blinked, sharing a look with Gwen.

“I’ll try talking to him,” she said.

“Yeah,” he replied as she stood, “See you later.”

She wiggled her fingers and disappeared with the rest of the class. Wade shoved his things in his bag haphazardly before making his way to the front of the building. Outside he paused on the front steps, next to MJ as she fiddled with her phone.

“Hey,” she said not looking up.

“Hey,” Wade tried to read her text over her shoulder, but MJ turned the phone away.

“Have you seen Peter?” she asked.

“Not since he ran out of class,” Wade replied.

MJ hummed, “Gwen said he brushed her off and she can’t find him now.”

“That sucks,” he said, not sure what the right reaction should be. Yeah, Peter was acting weird, but he wasn’t doing anything bad… Wade would’ve noticed something like that. They lived together. They slept in the _same room_.

“Is he okay?”

“I don’t know. I thought so,” Wade looked through the crowd again, trying to find Peter’s red hoody, his eyes alighting on something much more exciting. He could feel a smile growing out of control on his face.

“Who’s that?” MJ asked, hooding her eyes to see the two men leaning against a nondescript sedan.

“My dad,” Wade couldn’t keep the elation from his voice. He waved. His father waved back. Wade’s stomach did another somersault.

“Oh,” something in MJ’s voice made Wade look at her, “Is… that his partner?”

“His…” Wade looked back over to his dad and Coulson, sunglasses on, hands in his pockets, “No that’s his…” _don’t say handler don’t say handler don’t say handler_ “…Boss.”

The falter was too long. MJ gave him a skeptical look, “His boss.”

Wade shrugged, “Dad just got back in town. He probably picked him up.”

“Oh,” MJ looked across the street, smiled and waved. Clint waved again, this time with an amused smile. Wade’s face turned beet red.

“I’ll see you on Monday.”

“Yeah, see you… Hey! Don’t forget to talk to Peter!”

Wade raised a hand in acknowledgment, skipping down the steps and into the street. His dad’s smile only widened as he got closer until Wade crashed into his arms, being careful with his chest. Clint’s breath rushed out and he coughed, “Hey, Buddy.”

Wade instantly pulled away, looking his dad over, “Shit, I’m sor—“

“Hey,” Clint snapped, “Don’t say shit.”

“Sorry,” Wade tried again, chastised, “Did I hurt you?”

“Nah,” Clint pulled him in for another hug before letting him go, “How was school?”

“Good. I got an A on my paper.”

“Hey! Good job, Buddy! What was it on?”

“Captain America,” Wade tried to keep a straight face as Clint sent Coulson a cheeky grin which the Senior Agent ignored for his phone, “I had a lot of resources at my disposal.”

“I bet you did,” Clint laughed.

“Mind if I take a look at it?” Coulson asked. The hand he held out made it clear the question was a formality, but Wade didn’t mind. He dug around in his pack until he found the (now slightly creased) paper and handed it over as they all climbed in the car.

“So who was that?” Clint asked casually as he pulled into traffic.

“Who? MJ?” Wade asked, looking out the window.

“Is that her name?” Wade could hear the wicked grin passing over his father’s lips and rolled his eyes.

“She’s dating someone, Dad. Calm down.”

“Doesn’t mean that someone can’t be you.”

“Oh my Go— _no_. Seriously that’s like you dating Aunt Tasha.”

“We did do that you know.”

“No. I do not want to hear this.”

“I mean it wasn’t long, but—“

“ _Stop_! Jesus Dad, you’re scarring me for life!”

Clint snorted as Coulson handed Wade his paper, “Good.”

“What, no critique?” Wade asked, hoping Coulson was referring to the paper and flipping through to see if the Senior Agent had maybe marked something.

“Anything I’d have to say isn’t officially on the books anyway,” he replied.

“Classified,” Wade and Clint murmured together. Clint sent his son a Cheshire grin.

“Seriously, how can you even move with all that red tape you’re always wrapped in, Coulson?” Wade asked, leaning forward.

“Think of it like a velvet rope at a club,” Coulson replied, “I’m on the list. You’re not.”

“Ouch,” Wade said. Clint chuckled, “Don’t worry, Buddy, there are some clubs even Coulson can’t get into.”

“Not for lack of trying,” Coulson stated.

“One day that curiosity will turn around and bite you, Sir.”

“That’s never stopped you.”

Clint turned to his handler, his smile catching.

“Okay I’ve seen enough,” Wade interjected, leaning forward further, “What’s for dinner? I was promised grub.”

“We’re going to that weird Italian place in Queens you like,” Clint said, pushing his son back into his seat, “We’ll be there in a few minutes, just sit tight.”

“The one with the cake dumplings?” Wade asked excitedly.

“Yes the one with the cake dumplings.”

“I have no idea how you’re able to eat those,” Coulson said conversationally, “Just looking at them gives me diabetes.”

“Don’t hate the dumplings, Coulson,” Wade grinned, “Hate the game.”

There was a pause before Coulson replied, “I’m pretty sure that’s not how it goes.”

“Oh good we’re here,” Clint pulled into a snug spot on the road and stepped out, his son and handler following suit, “Nat should be inside already.”

“Yes!” Wade swooped through the door muttering excitedly, “This is awesome. This is _freaking_ awesome.”

“I never knew it took so little to make him happy,” Coulson commented, hands in his pockets as he stood next to Clint, watching Wade fade into the restaurant.

“We try to treasure the little things,” Clint replied with a small shrug, turning to grin at his handler, “Ready?”

Coulson held up the blue paper bag, the gift inside wrapped in green tissue paper.

“Fancy,” Clint’s smile grew.

Coulson shrugged a shoulder, settling the bag next to his leg, “I try.”

And with that, the two stepped through the door, Wade already wearing a ridiculous birthday hat and waving from the back where Natasha and Sitwell were waiting.

“I’m not wearing one,” Coulson said instantly. Clint could only laugh.

 

~~~

 

“Okay, what’s going on.”

Wade dropped his bag on the floor and flopped onto his bed. Peter kept ignoring him.

“Hey!”

“Hm,” Peter still didn’t look up.

“What the hell is going on with you, man?” Wade asked, sitting up.

“Nothing,” Peter finally answered, “Where were you?”

“Having dinner with my dad, don’t change the subject.”

“Was it good?”

“Pete!”

“What?” Peter finally turned around in his seat, “Nothing’s wrong, okay? That low grade just got to me. No big deal.”

Wade paused as Peter turned back to his computer, “You know I was raised by super spies, right?”

“Oh my God, what is your deal?” Peter snapped, jerking his chair to face Wade, “I can’t have _one_ bad day without everyone thinking I’m having a breakdown or something?"

Wade just blinked, “Well that’s an over reaction.”

“Fuck you,” Pete sneered, facing his computer and jamming is headphones over his ears.

Wade waited a second, studying his (admittedly best) friend before getting to his feet. Instead of leaving, however he walked right up behind Peter and flipped off his headphones, landing them on his keyboard. Peter’s reaction was instantaneous, “What the _hell_ , dude?”

“Let’s go for a walk,” Wade said.

Peter looked at him like he was crazy, “Seriously?”

“Seriously,” Wade replied, face taking on the look his father’s probably did when he wasn’t messing around, “Get your shoes.”

“It’s 10 at night!”

“I don’t care.”

“What are you gonna do? Force me?”

Wade took a step forward, making Pete take a step back, looking a little intimidated, “Move.”

Peter moved. They were out the door only a few moments later. The air was crisp and slightly warm for September, but Wade didn’t comment on it as they walked side by side down the street. Peter was antsy, shifting and hunching in his hoodie. Wade ignored that too, just taking in the late night feel. Breathing in the city only a few miles away.

“What’s the point of this?” Peter finally asked.

“To get you out of the house,” Wade said, “You’re not very active most of your day. You could use some exercise.”

Peter snorted contemptuously, “Just because I don’t sneak into gyms—“

Wade shot him a wicked grin.

“— doesn’t mean I’m not active.”

“Skateboarding occasionally doesn’t count.”

“Tch,” Peter rolled his eyes.

“So you gonna talk to me now or am I gonna have to beat it out of you?”

“You know, sometimes you say stuff and I can’t tell if you’re joking or not.”

“You could always test me.”

Peter dug deeper into his hoodie, watching his feet as they moved down the block.

“I found something yesterday. When Uncle Ben had me cleaning out the basement.”

Wade paused on the corner while they waited for traffic to pass, “What was it?”

Peter scuffed his shoe, refusing to make eye contact, “My dad’s briefcase.”

Wade stilled, nearly gaping until Peter looked up and flushed, ducking his head back down.

“Oh,” Wade had no clue what to say. Neither, apparently, did Peter. The rest of their walk was in silence and they made it back home without another word.

 

~~~

 

Clint dropped his bag by the couch and looked around Coulson’s apartment. It was at once exactly and nothing like the man: the walls were a warm neutral color, one was just exposed brick with thick wooden beams hung horizontally to make shelves. The one window looked over another apartment, much like Coulson’s office. There was little vegetation, just a hearty succulent taking up residence in a large wooden bowl on the peninsula in Coulson’s kitchen. The rest of the kitchen was the same as the refurbished wood shelves, the counter tops were some sort of slate material and the stools at the peninsula’s bar were red old fashioned barstools. They probably spun, though Clint didn’t test them right away.

“Well,” Coulson looked around as Clint turned to him, “This is it. Living room, kitchen, self-explanatory. The bathroom is behind that door there and that one is my room.”

“Tell me I’m not sleeping on your couch,” Clint joked. Though, the leather sofa did look comfortable.

Coulson huffed a laugh, “I’m nicer than that. It’s down here.”

Coulson led the way down the hallway to a third door, pushing it open before stepping aside, “It’s supposed to be an office so I apologize for the size.”

“No, it’s fine,” Clint assured, looking around the room. The walls were a pale green and the furniture and bed frame still had that refurbished look, the mirror over the dresser looked like it was picked up at a thrift shop and repainted, and the mattress was covered in clean white sheets and a a green knitted blanket, a white comforter folded at the end of the bed.

“Nice place,” Clint finally said, his throat clicking for no reason he could decipher.

“Thanks,” Coulson replied, “You alright to set yourself up? Need anything else?”

“No, I’m good, thanks,” Clint smiled.

“Alright, I’ll let you settle in,” Coulson closed the door behind him.

Clint turned back to the room and looked around once more, trying to identify why he felt like he was suffocating. He set his bag on the bed and began unpacking, tucking his clothes neatly in the dresser and folding his bag under the bed. He didn’t have very many personal objects, but he did set up the small framed photo of Wade and him at Fire Island from a few years back, then set his phone, keys, and wallet on the nightstand. He stood in the middle of the room for a second longer, then left, deciding to hunt down Coulson, which turned out not to be hard. The man was sitting on his leather couch, top shirt button undone, tie loosened, jacket thrown over the arm of the couch and shirt sleeves rolled up.

“Beer?” Coulson asked, holding out a bottle, not looking away from the TV.

Fuck.

“Sure,” Clint took the bottle and twisted off the top, sitting next to his handler and making himself comfortable. Well, as comfortable as he could. Because he’d finally identified the feeling. The suffocating pressure in his throat Coulson seemed to relieve with just his presence. The tension Clint had noticed for the past week. And it was really not a feeling he should be developing for his handler.

 _Fuck_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay but seriously kids, I NEED A NEW TITLE I WILL LITERALLY TAKE ANY SUGGESTIONS ANY AT ALL.
> 
> Really really.
> 
> I'm terrible at titles. This work shows it.


	14. Of New Experiences

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WHAT WHAT? What do you MEAN its only been TWO WEEKS AND I'M DONE WITH A CHAPTER??
> 
> This is craziness. Don't expect it to happen often, but enjoy it for now....
> 
> (And ephi didn't even get to check up on me!!!)
> 
> (And and and Shaz is the bomb. But ya'll already knew that, right?)

“Get up.”

There was a kick to the mattress and Wade groaned, rolling over, “No.”

“Dude, we’ve got like, five minutes. Seriously we gotta go.”

“What part of the word ‘weekend’ escapes you, Pete?” Wade asked, scrambling around with his eyes closed until he found his bear and stuffed it under his cheek. Yup. Still more comfortable than the pillow.

“The part where Gwen and MJ spent a month planning a birthday for you so you can have normal teenage experiences,” Peter drawled. Wade could hear his arms crossing.

Wade huffed, making a big show of turning over, “Fine. I’m awake.”

A balled up shirt smacked him him the face, followed by jeans, “Three minutes.”

“I’ve got more time than that,” Wade argued, standing and adjusting the waistband of his sweatpants, looking out the window at the weather. At some point during the night clouds had moved in, but that seemed to be the extent of the meteorological changes. He scratched his bare chest, “Is it supposed to rain?”

“Uh,” Wade glanced at Pete as he hurriedly looked out the window then back at his desk, “I don’t know, maybe?”

“Hey, are you okay, man?” Wade asked, trying to get Peter to look at him. Peter looked over, then down and up his frame before turning back to the desk, “Yeah I’m fine.”

“Is this about your dad’s briefcase?”

It was a strong possibility. When Wade and Pete had gotten home after their walk, Wade had asked to see it. They’d cleared the floor and pulled everything out, which wasn’t much: glasses, an old palm pilot, an ID from OsCorp… Peter had put on the glasses and Wade had laughed, “They look good on you.”

“Are you still going to ask Gwen—“

“I don’t think so,” Peter cut in, looking up then back down, shaking his head, “I mean, I’ve got time right? It’s not going anywhere.”

“Sure,” Wade replied, watching his friend closely.

“Besides, today is about you, not me,” Peter finally looked up for longer than a second, smiling.

“Right,” Wade said slowly, finally working the shirt over his head, “What are we doing again?”

 

~~~

 

“Bowling,” Wade looked at the front of the building, with its happy purple bowling ball and dancing little pins, “Really.”

“Well, you said you’ve never been,” Gwen explained next to him, “And Pete thought you’d enjoy it.”

Wade turned a stricken look to Peter, who just shrugged, looking self-satisfied, “New experiences.”

“Right,” Wade said looking back at the building with more than a little trepidation.

“Oh come on you big baby,” Gwen grabbed his arm and dragged him to the entrance. Wade heard Peter snort behind them, but before he could say anything Gwen had him through the doors. Wade didn’t know what he was expecting. Maybe something like a circus, with loud music playing from a juke box and people everywhere. Basically that scene from Grease. In reality it was much subtler, in fact the loudest sounds were coming from the lanes as the bowling balls cracked against the pins. The decorating was just as cheesy as he expected though: old panel carpeting for easy clean-up, those same dancing pins painted on the backdrop of each lane, neon lighting all over as if the building was single handedly trying to bring back the ‘80s… Oh and there was the juke box.

“So,” Gwen smiled, drawing the word out, “Happy birthday, Wade!”

Wade couldn’t help cracking a grin at Gwen’s enthusiasm before turning to Peter on his other side and saying through gritted tech, “Get me out of here.”

“Sorry, man,” Peter said with no sympathy, “You’re stuck for two games.”

“Two?” Wade demanded, sounding strangled.

“At least,” Peter patted him on the back fondly, “You’ll be fine.”

 

~~~

 

“How did you win?” Peter sat dumbfounded behind the computer, watching Wade’s score bounce around the TV above their heads.

Wade shrugged, feeling all kinds of smug, “Luck I guess.”

“Luck would’ve been you winning the first time,” MJ said looking more shocked than Peter, “not all four times. You’re like some bowling prodigy.”

Wade shrugged again, picking up his milk shake, “I like bowling. We should do this more often.”

“No,” Everyone said at once. Even Harry spoke up, which kinda pleased Wade. He was pretty sure the guy hated him. He just wasn’t sure if it was on principle or not. He _was_ sure it had something to do with Harry’s crush on/hero worship of Peter, but hey. That wasn’t Wade’s place.

“MJ!”

All heads turned as Flash, of all people, strode up to their little party. MJ bounced to her feet, giving him a brilliant smile, “Hey.”

Flash eyed the group disdainfully before turning his attention to Wade, “Well I hate to break up the kids party—hey!”

He laughed as MJ swatted his chest again, “I’m kidding! Hey no—I’m kidding. They know that.”

Peter looked annoyed, Gwen looked skeptical, but Wade replied, “Nah man, you gotta stay! We’re just about to start the next game!”

“No!” it was nearly a group shout.

“No?” Wade pulled a confused face as Flash snorted derisively, throwing an arm around MJ’s shoulders, “Nah I’ll pass. But you guys have fun with your bumpers and— hey!”

“Seriously, Flash. Stop it,” MJ ordered, “Bye guys!”

Wade waited from them to be out of earshot, a grin still plastered to his face before he said, “I can’t believe she’s dating that asshole.”

“She says he’s really sweet,” Gwen said. The boys groaned around her.

“Calling Flash sweet is like calling a ball python a neck accessory,” Peter informed her.

Harry snorted in agreement.

“That’s not nice guys,” Gwen objected.

“No, being a classic bully is not nice,” Wade replied, “giving Harry swirlys and breaking Pete’s skateboard is not nice. Calling Eugene out on his shit is the best thing we can do for him.”

Peter choked on his drink, “ _Eugene_?”

Wade shrugged, feeling satisfied, “I did some digging.”

Harry and Peter burst into laughter while Gwen gave them all a stern look.

“I’m sorry,” Wade smiled to her, “But he busted up my Birthday Party.”

Gwen just rolled her eyes.

 

~~~

 

Clint woke up at six on the dot. He shut off his alarm and swung his feet over the side of the bed, rubbing his eyes. He wasn’t sure Phil was ever getting rid of him with a guest bed like this. He wondered how he could bring up being roommates then hurriedly shoved the thought away, instead grabbing a clean towel from the top of the dresser and making his way to the bathroom. Coulson, of course, already had coffee brewing and was tying his tie while reading an email.

“Sleep well?” he asked, side eyeing Clint as he walked by.

Clint nodded, still not functioning enough yet for words and closed the bathroom door behind him. Ten minutes later, he was out and feeling marginally more awake. He slipped back into his room to dress and by the time he was out, there was a mug next to the coffee maker and a note, _Eggs in the fridge, clean up when you’re done. -C_

Clint folded the note back up instead of crumbling it and slid it in his pocket because he still didn’t know where the trashcan was. Or whether Phil was one of those people who were adamant about recycling. And since when did he become _Phil_? Clint sighed, closing his eyes to try finding some sort of equilibrium before pouring his coffee. He did help himself to Phil—Coulson’s eggs, and scrubbed the pan when he was done, letting it dry on the side board before booting up his own laptop to go through his emails. There weren’t many, just a few interdepartmental memos he dutifully read through, and a ping telling him he had an appointment with medical in… six minutes ago.

Clint rolled his head on his neck, trying to decide if it was worth hauling ass across town to make it 30 minutes late. Just as he was getting to his feet (who was he kidding, he was going to get shit no matter what), his cell rang.

“I’m coming, I’m coming,” Clint said, grabbing his wallet and keys, before Ph— _Coulson_ (Jesus what was _with_ him?) could get a word in edgewise.

“Door locks automatically,” Coulson replied instead of a normal greeting, “Your appointment has been delayed. We need you in the field.”

Clint paused on the steps, patting his jacket pocket for the inhaler Medical insisted he carry (and Coulson would no doubt check for) before picking up the pace, “Where to?”

“Afghanistan. A military convoy was just attacked.”

“High fliers?” Clint asked, swinging around the corner and into the subway. High ranking officers taken hostage was the only reason he could fathom being called in on such short notice after recovering from a pretty terrible op.

“Not as such. Tony Stark was taken. We think by the Ten Rings.”

“Jesus Christ,” Clint swore, making an elderly man glare at him, “I’ll call you back.”

He hung up and called Wade, leaving a message, “Hey, Buddy, going out of town again, but it should be quick so don’t worry. I’ll call you when I can. I love you,” then hung up. He bit his hard case as he rocked gently with the train, thinking of what exactly a group like the Ten Rings getting a hold of a mind like Tony Stark’s could mean for the world. Instantly he called Coulson back, “Fill me in.”

 

~~~

 

Three months later they were still looking. Clint had been rotated out numerous times by this point, going home long enough to change his underwear and sleep for five hours before shipping out again. Okay, that wasn’t totally true, but that was what it felt like.

“Dad, you seriously look terrible,” Wade told him one day at lunch, looking his father over worriedly. Clint just smiled, eyes a little droopy and said, “Tell me about school.”

This was his fifth trip out and to be honest, he was giving up hope. Even Stane, Stark’s mentor and business partner, was close to giving up. The only people who seemed dead set on the CEO’s life were Captain Rhodes and, for some reason, Stark’s secretary. Personal Assistant, whatever. She probably just hated job hunting. And Rhodes had basically given a "search until you find a body” order which Clint felt Director Fury was taking a little too close to heart.

“Didn’t I already search this way?” Clint asked the empty air, sighting through his scope.

“Negative,” Coulson’s voice replied, steady as ever through the comm, “That was 200 miles east of your current location.”

“Huh,” Clint grunted disapprovingly, “You know, if I didn’t know any better, I’d think you all—“

There was a moment of silence, “I’ve got smoke in my sights,” Clint said, “Permission to approach.”

“Granted,” Coulson’s voice was crisp, professional, “Proceed with caution.”

Clint scrambled down the cliff and over the next rise, training his scope one more time before the earth shook and a fireball exploded. Clint jerked, ready to call it in when something large, much too large to be thrown by the blast, launched from the middle of the mass of smoke and flame.

“Holy shit,” Clint breathed, retraining his scope. That was definitely not a rocket.

“Barton, report.”

“Sir,” Clint gulped, watching the metal figure arc high and begin its decent, “You are not going to believe this…"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so the chapter is kinda short. And the next one may be short too. But that really depends how close I can get it to the movie. Which is Iron Man. Because yes. This party is getting MCUed.
> 
> Booya.


	15. The Meeting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey thanks for hanging in there with me, y'all, this chapter took so long because for some god awful reason I thought it would be a good idea to stick to the script.
> 
> That was dumb of me.
> 
> And yet.
> 
> Here's the chapter, as I said, kinda small, but I hope you enjoy and as per usual [Ephi](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ephinee) is an inspirational stalker and [Shaz](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Shazrolane) is an awesome beta and YOU (yes you) are the reason I'm writing.
> 
> You go reader.
> 
> You go.

Before Afghanistan, Phil Coulson had no problem with Tony Stark. In fact he knew very little of the billionaire until the report of his kidnap slid across his desk. Phil knew the guy was smart and a playboy, they danced on opposite edges of the same pool (i.e. Washington politics, national security, etc.) so there had to be someone they mutually met at some point, but beyond the very superficial, there was nothing.

After Afghanistan… After Afghanistan Phil had a few issues.

"Miss Potts."

“Yes,” Stark’s PA turned to Phil with an accommodating, though stiff smile.

"May I speak to you for a moment?” Phil asked.

“I’m— I'm not part of the press conference but it’s about to begin right now,” she replied, turning back to the front of the room with a small gesture. Stark was making his way to the podium, flanked by Stane who took the lead after a small touch to Stark’s shoulder. 

“I’m not a reporter,” Phil said, looking from Stark to her, “I’m Agent Phil Coulson with the Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division.”

“That’s quite a mouthful,” she commented, taking his card.

Phil’s smile flickered, “I know. We’re working on it.”

“You know, we’ve been approached already by the DOD, the FBI, the CIA…”

“We’re a separate division,” Phil interrupted, “with a more... specific focus. We need to debrief Mr. Stark about the circumstances of his escape.”

“I’ll put something in the book, shall I?” the smile was back, a little more on edge, a little less civil.

Phil decided to take the hint, “Thank you.”

After a brief look back at the stage, Phil slipped back into the crowd, watching as Stark took a seat at the base of the podium, “Hey, would it be alright if everyone sat down? Why don’t you just sit down? That way you can see me, and I can… A little less formal and…” Stark took a huge bite of his burger.

The reporters and cameramen shuffled, those who could sit, sitting. Phil got an uneasy feeling in his chest, but after a moment’s hesitation did the same. Stark shared a few quiet words with Stane next to him before looking back into the crowd, “I never got to say goodbye to my father.”

The statement was so out of left field, people shuffled, extending their recorders to catch what would happen next. Phil’s uneasy feeling grew.

Stark continued, “There’s questions I would’ve asked him. I would have asked him how he felt about what his company did. If he was conflicted, if he ever had doubts.”

Stane looked down as Stark spoke, listening intently, “Or maybe he was every inch the man we all remember from the newsreels.”

Something changed in Stark’s face then, something hard Phil had noticed at the edges shifted to cover his entire expression, “I saw young Americans killed,” he said, his tone clear and heavy, “by the very weapons I created to defend them and protect them.”

Stane looked up then, but Phil couldn’t see his expression. Probably shock or concern. Stark never looked at his mentor as he went on, “And I saw that I had become a part of a system that is comfortable with zero accountability.”

A low hum of “Mr. Stark, Mr. Stark,” filled the first few rows of reporters until Stark said quietly, “Hey, Ben.”

“What happened over there?” Ben asked.

“Uh, I—I had my eyes opened,” Stark got to his feet and moved to stand behind the podium, his billionaire visage settling back over him like an old coat, as if the hardness had never existed, “I came to realize that I have more to offer this world than just making things that blow up. And that is why, effective immediately, I am shutting down the weapons manufacturing division of Stark International—“

The crowd leapt to their feet, hands flying up with questions.

“—until such a time—“

“Okay,” Stane began, trying to push Stark off stage, but the man wouldn’t budge until he’d said his peace, “—as I can decide on what the future of the company will be.”

“Okay, I think we’re gonna be selling a lot of newspapers,” Stane started again, talking over Stark.

The billionaire wasn’t to be cowed, continuing on as if the other man hadn’t spoken, “What direction it should take, one that _I_ am comfortable with—“

Stane finally got him out from behind the podium, but Stark continued speaking, “—and is consistent with the highest good for this country, as well.”

Phil was stunned. He watched Stark leave, ushered by his personal bodyguard as Stane tried to control the melee, “What we should take away from this... is that... Tony’s back! And, uh, he’s healthier than ever. We’re going to have, uh, a little internal discussion and we’ll get back to you with the follow-up.”

The crowd roared louder, but Phil already had his phone to his ear. This didn’t technically affect his mission, but he called it in anyway, his unease slowly blooming.

 

~~~

 

“Give me a scotch will ya, I’m starving.”

Phil looks up from deciding on his own drink when he hears the billionaire’s voice and jumps on the opportunity, “Mr. Stark?”

“Yeah huh?” he grunted, only half paying attention as his gaze slid over Phil.

“Agent Coulson,” Phil introduced, trying to keep his annoyance under wraps. It had been two weeks and a second metal man sighting since he’d asked for his first interview with Pepper Potts who, admittedly, now had a very full plate what with protecting Stark Industries from the government, the papers, and its own CEO.

“Oh, yeah, yeah, yeah,” Stark said, pointing the lip of his glass at Phil, “The guy from the um…”

He waved the glass absently as he looked around the room so Phil filled in, “Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division.”

“Right, yeah,” Stark said, blowing out a breath, “God, you need a new name for that.”

“Yeah, I hear that a lot,” and somehow he had less trouble hearing it from people like Potts than Stark, “Listen I know this must be a trying time for you, but we need to debrief you.”

Stark nodded and looked away, clearly not interested. Phil could feel his neck heat but pressed on, “There’s still a lot of unanswered questions, and time can be a factor with these things.”

Something caught Stark’s eye, but damned if Phil wasn’t going to get at least something before the man escaped, “Let’s just put something on the books. How about the 24th at seven pm at Stark Industries?”

“Tell you what,” Stark said, holding out his hand, not looking away from whatever caught his attention, “You got it. You’re absolutely right.”

Phil’s heart sank as he shook the billionaire’s hand and Stark continued, “Well, I’m going to go to my assistant and we’ll... make a—“ he flopped his hand half heartedly, “—date.”

Phil watched Stark walk away, his eyebrows rising when he saw Pepper Potts in a gorgeous blue gown, her back very bare. He figured he’d be distracted too if he were in Stark's position.

 

~~~

 

Phil’s phone rang again, fully pulling him from sleep. He swung his legs over the side of the hotel bed and answered the call, not even bothering with the light, “Coulson.”

“You know of a little spot called Gulmira?” Fury asked conversationally.

Phil got to his feet, not bothering with his glasses either as he padded to the bathroom.

“Nice place,” Fury continued, sounding like he was recommending a nice vacation spot, “when it existed.”

“Do you need me out?” Phil asked, turning on the shower and the light before rubbing his eyes.

“No, no,” Fury said easily, and Phil’s heart sank, “The US Air Force already handled the situation.”

Phil opened his mouth to say something, but all he got out was, “Sir—“

“Coulson, I sent you out there to debrief Stark, not let him run around the Middle East trying to be the next Captain America.”

Phil slumped to the toilet, “Yes, Sir.”

“Now take care of this before I have to fly out there myself, are we clear?”

Phil closed his eyes, letting his head thump against the wall, “Yes, Sir.”

“Good,” Fury sounded, if not satisfied, then less indignant, “Now go back to sleep. You’ve got a busy day tomorrow.”

“Yes, Sir.”

The dial tone whined in his ear before he’d finished the statement.

 

~~~

 

Phil patiently waited in the lobby of Stark Industries for a meeting he was pretty sure no one was going to make. He sat very still, his frustration running him to patience instead of anger. It was already 7: 25, he’d give Stark or Ms. Potts another five minutes before—

“Ms. Potts?” Phil called, watching the woman handle the stairs in kitten heels like a pro.

Ms. Potts looked up, but Phil in his annoyance didn’t recognize her panic as he continued, “We had an appointment. Did you forget our appointment—“

“Nope. Right now. Come with me,” she cut in, not breaking stride.

Phil blinked, getting to his feet, “Right now?”

“We’re going to have it right now,” she said again decisively, “Yep, walk with me.”

"Okay,” Phil said dragging out the word as he tried to keep pace.

“I’m going to give you the meeting of your life. Your office.”

Phil followed her into the waiting car and gave the driver the address for SHIELD’s West Coast office. They were silent on the drive over and through the building until they reached the office Phil was borrowing. As soon as the door closed, Potts handed over a jump drive. Phil looked between it and the woman in front of him, “Tell me everything.”

And she did. Phil watched the video Stane had received, his face impassive and listened as Pepper Potts explained everything that had happened in the past 18 days. It was a lot, and Phil could feel his head beginning to throb with paperwork.

“Where is Mr. Stark now?” Phil asked.

“At home,” Ms. Potts replied, “He hasn’t left since yesterday. What with the flight and the bombs—"

“Why don’t you give him a call,” Phil said, “If Stane is after Stark’s tech, we should probably get him over here.”

“Oh!” Potts smiled, seeming to come back to herself, “Yes. Right. I’ll call him now.”

She shuffled around her purse, pulling out her phone and pressed a button. She only had to wait a moment, “Tony?”

She paused, but there seemed to be no response, “Tony, are you there? Hello?”

Potts pulled her head away, startled, and looked at the phone screen, “He hung up on me.”

“That’s unusual?” Phil asked.

“Yes, he never—“

“Ms. Potts I need you to stay here,” Phil said, getting to his feet. Potts immediately jumped to her own, “Why? Did something happen to Tony?”

“We’re going to check,” Phil tried to sound reassuring.

“No, if you’re going, I’m going,” she said firmly, “You need me to get into the house or, or, the labs or—“

“Ms. Potts,” Phil held up a hand, placatingly, “You can come.”

“Okay.”

“But you have to do everything I say.”

“Okay. I can do that.”

Phil let out a breath through his nose, “Alright, come with me.”

 

~~~

 

The lab was a mess.

Phil felt like a fool walking in with four other agents and a PA only to have the building literally come crashing down around all of them. And Stark. Stark of all people saved their asses.

And killed his mentor.

Phil did feel for him about that. It’s why when they finally debriefed two and a half weeks after Stark’s first world changing proclamation, he didn’t give him too much trouble. He only asked, (Phil never begged) for the man to stick to the cards.

“Hello?”

“Hey!” Clint’s voice felt like being doused in cold water after too long in the desert, “Heard you finally got your mission completed.”

“Yeah,” Phil said, a small tick raising the corner of his lip as he watched the press conference from a TV in the back room. He could hear the reporters through the door making noise when Col. Rhodes told them Stark wouldn’t be answering questions, “Turns out wrangling him is harder than wrangling you.”

Clint snorted, “I’m touched, Sir. Truly.”

“I bet,” Phil shifted a little as Stark took the stage, “Are you watching this?”

“Yup,” Clint replied, “Me, Nat, Wade and Peter.”

“Your couch is awesome, Sir!” Phil heard Wade shout in the background.

“Wade’s been keeping me company while you’ve been away,” Clint explained, “With— I mean with the PT and stuff—Ow! Jesus Nat, what?”

Phil wasn’t listening. He was pretty sure he’d heard what Natasha had.

“I never said you were a superhero,” the blonde reporter interjected. Phil’s heart dropped. He was pretty sure he heard it hit the floor.

“Didn’t?” Stark seemed to be trying to backtrack, “Well, good, because that would be outlandish and um... fantastic.”

Stark looked at the cards, shuffled his feet, “I— I’m just not the hero type. Clearly,” he went on, “With this, um, laundry list of character defects, all the mistakes I’ve made, largely… public…”

Rhodes leaned to Starks ear, making him quiet for a moment and reshuffle the cards in his hands. Phil could feel his stomach churn in anticipation as the billionaire picked up his cards once more, “The truth is…”

And he hesitated. And Phil knew _exactly_ what would come next, his stomach dropping with his heart.

“I am Iron Man.”

“I’ll call you back,” Phil hung up the phone still at his ear and hastily dialed Fury, “Sir—“

“I heard,” the Director said gravely, “I’m already headed out. You come home, I have another project for you.”

“Yes, Sir,” Phil felt himself sag inwardly, thinking of all the paperwork he had in front of him. He felt tired. And frustrated. Because Stark didn’t seem to be able to stay out of trouble and Phil knew, he _knew_ , this would all come back on him. Tony Stark had been his responsibility and now…

Now he was probably going to stay his responsibility.

“You did good, Coulson,” Fury reminded him, before hanging up. Phil looked down at his phone for a moment, trying to gather his thoughts, but gave up when he couldn’t tell where the pounding ended and the screaming reporters in the other room began. 

He figured it was just as well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't forget: questions, comments, concerns, critiques, and kudos are always welcome.
> 
> Oh, and you can come say hi on [tumblr](http://boobeargoboom.tumblr.com) too, that would be cool, you know...
> 
> If you're into that kind thing.
> 
> :)


	16. Crucial Adjustments

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Oh look she does nothing for two months then comes out of nowhere with a huge ass chapter)
> 
> But in all seriousness, I waffled a lot on making this multiple chapters or not. Instead I'll just throw it all up here and hope for the best. Enjoy my rendition of The Amazing Spider-Man!
> 
> ((And and thank you as per usual to Shaz and Ephi))
> 
> (((And any and everyone else who has been waiting patiently for me to come back)))

Clint turned the TV down when he heard the lock dis-engage and watched as Phil slumped through the door, looking pail and more tired than Clint thought he should after such an apparently easy op.

“Bad flight?” Clint guessed. Phil looked up at him, seaming only now to notice someone else in the apartment. Phil smiled and Clint couldn’t help smiling back, trying to ignore his heart kick up a beat. Phil just looked so _miserable_.

“Bad flight?” Clint asked again. Phil nodded, dropping his things and kicking his shoes off at the door, loosening his tie and shedding his jacket before finally trudging to the couch with a groan.

“Hungry?”

“I could eat,” Phil assented, rubbing his face with his palms before leaning back, eyes closed. Clint got off the couch and went to the kitchen to make a quick sandwich. When he came back, Phil had mindless TV playing in the background and thanked Clint when he handed over the plate.

“So,” Clint said, elbows on his knees while he watched Phil eat, “Enjoy yourself?”

Phil shot him a bleary, but quailing, look as he chewed. Clint raised his hands in innocence, his smile anything but, “Hey, just asking.”

“Never again,” Phil finally said through his bite.

“Never?” Clint smiled.

Phil stared at him wearily after swallowing, “Never.”

Clint snorted, “You know Fury put him on the roster, right?”

Phil groaned, slumping further into the couch, sandwich half eaten and forgotten in his hand, “Don’t tell me that.”

“Hey, better me than Hill,” Clint shrugged, “R and D is going crazy. They’re convinced we’re all going to be refurbished with StarkTech now.”

“Stark doesn’t make weapons anymore,” Phil reminded.

“Yeah, but he’s Stark. He’ll make something we can use.”

Phil sighed, rubbing his eyes with his free hand before taking a good long look at Clint. Clint tried not to show how much it affected him.

“How’s Wade?”

“Good,” Clint shifted, subtly putting a little more space between them, “He and Peter are working on some project for school. They tried to explain it to me, but it kinda went over my head.”

Phil nodded, “Understandable.”

“Hey!”

“What? It would probably go over my head too right now,” Phil said, using Clint’s early mock innocents against him. Clint glared, but his grin ruined the affect. Phil’s smile back only made it that much harder to be mad.

“Glad you’re home, Boss,” Clint said with a little more compassion than he intended.

Phil’s smile turned soft and tired, maybe a little fond, “Glad to be back.”

Clint squeezed his shoulder once, then headed to bed.

 

+_+

 

Wade pulled out his headphones when he started to hear the chanting, looking up from the history book he’d been doodling in while Gwen read as she sat on the table next to him. Flash had a kid suspended upside down, forcing him face first into a plate of spaghetti. Wade scrunched his nose as Gwen shut her book.

“Eat your vegetables Gordon, come on!” Flash shouted over the cheers of _Eat it! Eat it! Eat it!_ , “Hey Parker, come on, get a picture of this.”

Wade hadn’t even seen Peter arrive.

“No, I’m not going to take a picture of it. Put him down, man,” Pete replied.

“Come on!”

“Put him down,” Peter said again, “Gordon, don’t eat it. Don’t eat it.”

“Take the picture, Parker,” Flash demanded, still suspending Gordon.

“Put him down, Flash.”

“Take. The Picture.”

“Put him down,” Peter finally shouted over the crowd, “ _Eugene._ ”

Wade squaked, nearly choking on his tongue and covered his mouth to hide the sound. He looked at Gwen who gave him a deplorable look back. Across the courtyard Flash tossed Gordon to the ground, advancing on Peter, but he didn’t notice.

“Hey, man—“

Flash grabbed Peter as he went to help Gordon up, punching him hard enough to send him splaying. Wade hopped to his feet, grabbing his stuff, but Gwen was three feet ahead of him, striding right into the fray.

“Come on, get up, Parker!” Flash shouted as Peter stumbled to his feet. He punched him again in the stomach, “Come on! Get up!”

The crowd was backing up, some hurrying away to get out of the line of fire. Flash kicked Peter while he was on the ground and Wade nearly saw red.

“Stay down, Parker!” Flash roared, turning to the crowd, “Who wants one more? One more! Huh? Huh?—“

“Flash!"

Flash was still shouting, but when he turned around Gwen was standing there, nearly a foot shorter in her flats, holding her books carelessly against her hip, with a look on her face Coulson would admire.

“Flash,” she said evenly when she’d caught his attention, “we still on for after school today? My house, 3:30?”

Flash wouldn’t meet her eye as she continued, “I hope you’ve been doing your homework. Last time I was…” she took a deep breath, shaking her head, “ _very_ disappointed in you.”

“Okay, move,” Flash said, trying to push her out of the way, but she was having none of it.

“No, Flash, how about we go to class?” she stepped in front of him again, “Hm? How ‘bout it?”

As if on cue, the bell rang and the crowd started really dispersing.

“Whatever,” Flash muttered, turning away.

Wade pushed his backpack more firmly on his shoulder before helping Peter up and dusting him off, “You okay?”

Peter gritted his teeth as he bent to grab his own backpack, “Yeah. Did I do something to her?”

Wade watched Gwen’s retreating back, “Well,” he said, handing Peter his camera, “I mean you haven’t really talked to anybody for, like, a month so…”

Wade scratched the peach fuzz on his jaw in consideration. He was very proud of his peach fuzz.

“I talk to you,” Pete said, limping with Wade to class.

“Doesn’t count, I live with you,” Wade replied, keeping a gentle hand on Pete’s backpack so he didn’t fall into the lockers before he got to the classroom door, “Hey, don’t break yourself in class. I don’t want to explain to May why I’m coming home with you in pieces.”

Peter snorted, straightening a little before he walked in the room.

“Hey,” Wade caught his attention again, nodding to Gwen and mouthing, “Apologize.”

Pete rolled his eyes, but nodded, slumping into a seat at the back of the room.

 

+_+

 

Peter wasn’t around after school. Wade hesitated outside his last class and on the front steps, but didn’t see him anywhere. He did see Gwen though, so he paused by her while she switched around the books in her locker.

“Hey,” he said, “Did Pete talk to you?”

“He tried,” Gwen shrugged, closing the door.

“Have you seen him?”

“Not since last period. And where were you, by the way? It’s not like you to skip.”

“I had a few things I wanted to sort out before I got side tracked,” Wade hiked his backpack further up his shoulder, ignoring Flash who ignored him back, looking a little pail.

“Uh huh,” Gwen watched Flash walk by before turning her gaze back to Wade, “Well the paper is due in two days, don’t forget.”

“Whao, hey!” Wade called as Gwen turned away. She sent him a deadpan stare back.

“Just give Peter some time, okay? He’s going through some stuff right now.”

“He’s got all the time he needs,” she dismissed, then turned and strode away.

Wade felt there was probably hidden girl meaning in that last phrase, but for the life of him he couldn’t figure out what it was.

 

+_+

 

The door to their room was cracked when Wade got home. He pressed it open to find Peter sitting on the floor with the contents of his dad’s briefcase in neat piles in front of him. Wade wasn’t surprised. He’d often found Peter in this same position, usually late at night.

“Hey,” he said quietly, sitting cross-legged across from Peter.

Peter looked up just long enough to acknowledge Wade before going back to the contents. He had his father’s glasses back on. They really did look good on him.

Wade didn’t know what to say, so he tried his old standby, “Anything?”

A short shake of Pete’s head gave him his answer. Wade nodded, waiting. Wade had never been good at sitting still, so he leaned back a bit, bracing himself with his hands behind him, still quiet. Peter finally moved first, picking up the briefcase. There was a swish. Something neither of them had heard before. They looked at each other before Wade leaned forward and Peter began taking a more detailed look at the case. He opened it, feeling along the seams, then flipped it around, unzipping the back, he felt the top crease slowly, eyes growing until they heard a snap. Peter looked up at Wade. Wade stared back. Both boys moved at once, Wade shutting the door, Peter flicking the toggle to lock it, before Wade slid to Peter’s side, staring at the file he pulled out. It was old, obviously, from OsCorp, with two big red zeros on the front corner. Peter flipped it open, but Wade couldn’t read it beyond the chicken scratch. At the bottom, circled, with the same red zeroes was a formula. It looked too complicated, but he heard Peter whisper, “Zero, zero, decay rate algorithm…”

There was a knock at the door. Wade shot to his feet, feeling like he’d just done something dirty as Peter said, “Yeah, one sec, one sec,” and shuffled the file back in its hidden spot. Wade grabbed his backpack and leaped to his bed, settling easily with a book for english as Peter unlocked the door.

“You okay?” Ben asked, leaning into the room.

“Yeah, what’s up?” Peter asked, trying to look casual. Wade flipped his book right side up and kept reading.

“Oh my God.”

Wade’s eyes flicked up, his whole body stilling, heart thundering, until Ben continued, “You look just like him.”

Peter lifted the glasses as Ben asked, “Can I come in?”

Peter shrugged with a nod, “Yeah.”

“Listen, um,” Ben started and Wade all the sudden had the urge to leave for what was probably going to end up being a private conversation, but Pete’s bed and desk were closest to the door and bringing attention to himself by cutting through them seemed like an even worse idea, “I don’t have much education, you know that, Peter. Hell, I stopped being able to help with your homework when you were 10. What I’m trying to say is, uh… I know it’s been rough for you without your dad. And I know we don’t talk much about them.”

“Yeah, it’s alright.”

“No, it is not all right,” Ben replied, sternly, “I wish I could change it, but I can’t.”

Ben sighed, his eyes flicking to the ground and the newspaper clipping still lying in the now messed up pile on the floor, “Curt Connors. That’s the name of the guy in the picture with your dad.”

Wade made a mental note of the name. He could see Peter do it too.

“They worked together for years and they were close, but after that night we never saw him again. He never even called. Not once,” Ben sighed looking at his hands, “Go figure.”

When he looked up again, Wade had his nose buried back in his book, “She’s pretty.”

Wade looked up, the same time as Peter, and realized the screen of his computer was a picture of probably the Debate team, zoomed in on Gwen smiling from the back row. Wade felt his stomach pull a confusing clench/swoop as Peter ducked his head.

 

+_+

 

“Coulson.”

“I don’t know what I did to deserve this,” Sitwell muttered darkly.

Phil smiled, sitting back to take a break from the avalanche of paperwork Stark had unwittingly (probably) thrown him under, “Well, something ‘exemplary’ if the paperwork is correct.”

Sitwell let out a sharp tch, “You know what I did today? I watched him try to outrun a bunch of coworkers. Apparently he offended them.”

“Isn’t the point of him hiding in third world countries to keep a low profile?”

“He told them not to make him _hungry_ , Coulson.”

Phil couldn’t help his snort at that, “He’s a scientist, not a linguist, Sitwell.”

“Yeah, he’s something I’ll give him that. He destroyed most of the factory he worked in.”

Phil subdued, “Any casualties?”

“Just the idiots who chased him there. And someone leaked the old guy croaking state side so the General is in town with a few friends.”

“Anyone we need to keep an eye on?”

“The Brit. What’s his name.”

“Blonsky.”

“Yeah him. Flew him in special.”

Coulson hummed, frowning, “Keep me updated. I’ll send it up the chain.”

“Roger.”

 

+_+

 

“You really suck at this, man,” Wade said, making Peter jump a foot in the air.

“Jesu— what are you doing here?!” Peter hissed, eyes flicking around the room, “You’re gonna get us kicked out!”

“Uh,” Wade raised his hand slightly, “Raised by spies. You’re the guy that stole the badge.”

“Okay,” Peter looked around again before stepping closer, “You’re seriously going to get us in trouble if you stay here.”

“I won’t, I promise,” Wade opened his jacket, his hands in the pockets in some justification of innocents, “I’ll just be here when Gwen notices you. Or for like, a distraction or whatever. Trust me I’ll be useful.”

“Fine, just…” the group began to move, “Just stay close.”

“Aye, aye, Cap’n.”

Peter glared, but Wade just smiled back. They moved down a short corridor to a research lab where Gwen regathered the group. Wade raised his hand as if to wave but Pete grabbed it and held it at his side, his grip firm on Wade’s wrist.

“My name is Dr. Curtis Connors,” a tall man next to Gwen introduced, smiling faintly at the group. All of him was thin: his hair, his build, his eyes behind his glasses… He looked older than Peter’s picture, but Wade would’ve recognized him in a mob, “And yes, in case you’re wondering, I’m a southpaw.”

The group around him chuckled and tittered, but Wade didn’t get the joke.

“I’m not a cripple, I’m a scientist,” Conners continued, “and the world’s foremost authority on herpetology. That’s reptiles, for those of you who don’t know. Like the Parkinson’s patient who watches on in horror as her body slowly betrays her, or the man with macular degeneration whose eyes grow dimmer each day, I long to fix myself. I want to create a world without weakness. Anyone care to venture a guess just how? Yes?”

“Stem cells?” a raised hand asked in the front.

“Promising,” Connors assented, “But the solution I’m thinking of is more... radical."

Wade looked around the group as they shuffled in place, not making eye contact with anyone in particular.

“No one?” Connors asked.

“Cross-species genetics.”

Wade looked at Peter with the rest of the group, stepping aside to keep himself hidden by the tall guy in front of him. Peter sent a slightly panicked look at Wade then Conners. Gwen looked at her clipboard for Pete’s name, but came up empty. When she looked up again, Wade caught her eye and wiggled his fingers. Her face darkened.

“Person gets Parkinson’s when the brain cells that produce dopamine start to disappear. But a zebra fish has the ability to regenerate cells on command. If you could give this ability to the woman you’re talking about that’s that. She’s…“ Peter took a breath, a small smile on his face from the shear possibilities, “She’s curing herself.”

“Yeah you just have to look past the gills on her neck,” the boy upfront said to laughing from the group. Wade made eye contact with him and stared until the smirk fell from his face and he looked away. But Conners was still staring at Peter, assessing.

“And you are…?”

Peter opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

“He’s one of Midtown Science’s best and brightest,” Gwen cut in.

Conners turned to her, “Really?”

“Second in his class,” she confirmed.

“Oh.”

“Second?” Peter asked.

“Yeah.”

“Sure about that?”

Gwen gave him a slightly chilled smile, “Pretty sure.”

Conners’ phone wrang, “I’m afraid duty calls. I’ll leave you in the more than capable hands of Miss Stacy,” he took one last look around the group, his eyes lingering on Peter, “Nice meeting you all.”

“If you’d like to gather round,” Gwen said, pulling up a hologram. A high, pretty female voice began introducing them to OsCorp, but before Wade could actually get interested (or at least fake it), he was being dragged away by Peter, but not fast enough.

“Hi.”

They paused at Gwen’s voice and turned around, “What are you doing, Rodrigo?”

“Uh,” Peter tried.

“I’m not here,” Wade said.

“Fine,” Gwen sent him a glare that made his face burn before she turned back to Peter, “Then why are you here?”

“I…” Peter struggled for a moment before blurting, “I love science.”

Wade slapped a hand over his face, praying his dad never heard about this.

“You love it,” Gwen deadpanned.

“I’m passionate about it,” he amended. Wade looked everywhere but at his friends, embarrassed to be in the same viscidity as the conversation.

“So you snuck in—“ there was a sound by the hologram, making Gwen check over her shoulder before turning back to them, “I have to lead this tour group.”

“I know.”

“We’ll talk more later. Do _not_ get me in trouble.”

“I promise we won’t.”

“Stay with the group.”

Wade and Pete nodded amicably, making their way back to the group behind Gwen as she announced, “Alright, guys? I’m gonna take you to the bioreactor room now.”

Peter grabbed Wade’s arm as they started walking and pulled him close, “Stay with the group.”

“What? No! Where are you going?”

“I’m gonna check some stuff out, I’ll be back real quick, I promise.”

“Dude!” Wade hissed, watching Peter walk away. He looked at the retreating group then his best friend, hesitating. Then Peter knocked into a very important looking man in a black suit, stumbling through apologies as he grabbed the man’s fallen folder. When Pete hesitated over handing it back, Wade noticed, and when Pete started following the guy, Wade did too.

He watched Pete hesitate around a corner, but was too slow to catch him going in the room. He cursed, glaring at the lock as it reengaged and hung out awkwardly around the corner, keeping an eye out for people coming. No one did, and when Pete emerged a few minutes later, Wade grabbed his arm and hustled him away.

“What are you doing?” Pete hissed, trying to pull away, “I told you to stay with the group!”

“Right, while you follow the shady guy to a secret room and potentially get found. Great plan,” Wade refused to let him go until they saw the group again. More importantly, they saw a pissed off Gwen Stacey striding toward them, “Aw crap.”

She paused in front of them, looking expectant. Wade gave her a winning smile and Peter opened his mouth with a huff, as if to say something funny as he pointed over his shoulder.

“Alright, give me the badge,” Gwen held out her hand. Pete slumped in his jacket, but pulled at the clip in acceptance. Gwen turned to Wade, “Give it to me.”

Wade shrugged, doing the innocent-jacket-opening-thing again, “I just walked in.”

He wasn’t telling either of them about swiping his dad’s Government ID. It wasn’t as important as his SHIELD ID anyway, so his dad barely used it. And besides, they looked almost identical in the picture so he could get into places like this easy. Not that he did often (at all), but you never know.

Gwen just glared.

“Sorry,” Peter muttered, setting the badge in her hand. Gwen only took it and walked away. Wade watched her go, but turned to Peter when he heard an, “Aah!”

Wade raised an eyebrow as Pete swiped his neck, looking at his hand before swiping it at his nape again, “You okay?”

“Yeah,” Pete said distractedly, looking at his hand, then over to Gwen as she moved the group away, “Yeah, I’m fine. Let’s go.”

Wade let him lead the way.

 

+_+

 

Wade kept his eyes closed, leaning back on the subway bench so his head could gently thump the window as it trundled along and listen to the stops for him and Pete. Pete was passed out on the opposite bench, his backpack cushioning his head and his hand twitching every so often next to his skateboard. He’d been quiet since they’d left OsCorp and when Wade had asked was had been in the room, Pete had just shuddered and said, “Spiders.”

It had sounded pretty ominous.

Now, though, they were both tired, and only, like, three stops away from home—

There was a loud thump on the top of the sub car, sending Wade instantly awake and staring at Pete’s backpack, Pete’s skateboard…

And no Pete.

“Holy—!”

Wade looked at the group huddled at one end of the car, then whatever they were looking at and gaped, eyes huge. Peter was hanging from the ceiling.

 _Peter_ was _hanging_ from the _ceiling_ by his _hands and feet_.

Wade felt like he was about to pass out.

Peter seemed to realize what he was doing at the same time as Wade, because he looked at his hands in shock and dropped with a heavy thump to the floor. Wade still didn’t know what to say. He was pretty sure his mouth was still open.

“Disgusting, now I smell like beer.” a girl said. Pete was instantly on his feet, pivoting and reaching out. He looked unsteady as he mumbled, “Uh sorry. I didn’t mean to do that, I didn’t…”

His hand was sticking to her shirt.

“I didn’t— I didn’t—“ Pete tried to gently shake the fabric off, but he clearly wasn’t grabbing it. Wade started getting a sick feeling and made to get to his feet, but a drunk got there first.

“Get your hand off her!” he ordered and Peter nodded, mumbling still, “I’m trying, I’m trying to get my…”

He swayed, his head bobbing backward and forward as if he was having trouble focusing. The drunk lunged at him, shoving him away as Pete’s eyes went wide and the shirt tore right off the girl’s frame. She and Pete had mirrored looks of horror as a man started laughing.

“Are you kidding?” the drunk, made as if to cover the girl, her face burning as she looked anywhere but at the rest of the train passengers.

“I’m sorry,” Peter immediately grabbing the pole he’d hit to steady himself and held out the shirt as if to offer it, but the drunk was pissed.

“Are you _freaking_ kidding me?” he said a bit louder.

Another of the snickering men called out, “Hey you get him, Rudy!”

Rudy looked like he was about to spit fire, but Pete was looking at the pole, his gaze dazed as if he was trying to figure something out.

“Hey!” Rudy took a swing and Wade was on his feet. But before he could even intervene, the guy was splayed on the floor, groaning as he clutched his hip.

“Man, I’m sorry!” Peter shouted immediately, trying his damnedest to get his hand free. Wade didn’t even know where to start. He looked from Pete to the guy, Rudy, to Pete again, “Pete…?”

Then another man was lunging for him. Peter didn’t even blink, grabbing the bar with his other hand and kicking the guy in the face before falling on his back. One of the other girls shouted _take him down_ , but Wade barely heard it over the ringing in his ears, his eyes never leaving Pete as he took down _another_ guy. The same kid who only a few days ago lost a fight to _Flash freaking Gorgon_ because he refused to take a picture.

Wade watched in stunned silence as Peter took down one, then another, then a third, trying to keep them from hurting him. _He’s being gentle_ , Wade realized, _He doesn’t want to hurt them either._

Wade was so speechless that when the pole ( _the one that was supposed to be stuck to the ceiling holy shit_ ) in Peter’s hand dropped he jumped, and when the polite train voice announced the stop for Coney Island he jerked his head, trying to find the face to put it to. 

“Go,” Wade said as soon as the doors were open. Peter looked up at him for the first time, but Wade ignored it, grabbing the pieces of Pete’s board ( _When the hell did that happen?_ ), his backpack, and hustling his best friend off the car, “Gogogogogo.”

 

+_+

 

They didn’t talk about it. They ran home, too busy keeping up with each other to talk until they skidded to a stop outside they house.

“Shit,” Peter breathed, looking at the brightly lit house. Wade didn’t say anything, just grabbed Pete’s arm and sprinted up the steps, opening the door and shoving him inside.

“Ah… Hey,” Pete called from the door, rubbing his leg as he walked, “Hey, hey, hey. We got—“

“We’ve been so worried,” May cut over Pete, standing an intimidating foot shorter than either boy, her eyes blazing behind her glasses.

“I know,” Pete said, sinking into himself, “I’m sorry— Watch out!”

Wade startled, still on an adrenaline high when Peter reached out, inches from May’s face, and plucking something from the air. It was a fly.

Peter let it go.

He was covered in sweat, shaking slightly as he seemed to lose focus. Wade was getting worried he’d been exposed to something in the room at OsCorp.

“I’m so sorry,” Pete said slowly, finally looking from May to Ben, who sat at the table. Wade noticed for the first time they were both in pajamas. He wondered what time it was.

“I kept you guys up,” he went on, “I’m insensitive, I’m irresponsible, and I’m hungry.”

And with that he kissed May on the cheek and darted for the kitchen.

Wade followed silently as May and Ben crowded the door, watching Peter gorge on cold meat loaf like it was the greatest thing he’d ever tasted. It was good, sure, but Wade had had street food that was better cold.

“Drinking?” May asked Ben quietly. Peter was mumbling to himself, his head half ducked in the fridge looking for more.

“I don’t think so,” Ben replied. Both looked at Wade expectantly, to which he raised his hands placatingly.

“I know nothing,” he said. Both adults looked at each other, then back to their nephew.

“This is your meat loaf,” Pete stated, holding out the plate, half a piece in one hand and the other in his mouth, “This beats… all other meat loafs.”

“Something is very wrong,” May was starting to look distressed so Wade decided to intervene just as Ben said, “Yeah, nobody likes your meat loaf.”

“Okay, we’re gonna just…” Wade trailed off, watching Peter balance an awkward stack of leftovers between the meat loaf plate and his chin. A container went to drop, but Pete caught it with the crook of his elbow, “I got it.”

Wade, Ben and May stood in the doorway to the kitchen for a moment, just watching Peter make his way upstairs.

“Right,” Wade said slowly, “I’m just gonna…” he gently took the broken skateboard from May’s hands (and seriously he was way off his game if he missed that transfer too) and bounded up the steps behind Peter before he could close the door.

Then he just stood there, watching Peter eat.

Pete didn’t even give him the time of day, just pounded down the food like it was his job, or his last meal. Or both. Finally he looked up at Wade, a half handful of cole slaw almost to his mouth. Wade quirked a brow.

“I’m gonna be sick.” he said.

Peter bolted to the bathroom across the hall, retching everything he’d just put down. Wade rolled his eyes, not sure what else to do. When Peter came back, all Wade could get out was, “Hey—“ before he face planted in his bed, out cold. Wade stared at his best friend as he snoozed, head at an awkward angle, trying to figure out when he’d gone from calm (if slightly embarrassed) to manic. It was the spider room. It had to be the spider room.

 

+_+

 

Something was wrong with Peter.

He was ignoring everyone. Not just Gwen, MJ, and Harry, but Wade and his aunt and uncle, which Wade thought had to be some sort of feat considering he lived with them. But apparently sharing a room with a guy didn’t mean you actually had to see him. Good information to know for college.

Lately the only way any of them could get ahold of Pete was catching him while he was taking pictures for the paper. Which was how MJ conned Wade into painting posters for the Big Game coming up. Wade knew nothing about the Big Game against the school’s Big Rival. All he knew was Pete was going to be in the gym taking pictures, and Wade wanted to see him. To check on him. Of course.

“You did that on Purpose, Flash!” Mia shouted, from her poster. Wade glanced up from his glitter (shut up), then kept working.

“No, but I should’ve,” he threatened, “You better watch your back.”

Wade couldn’t help sitting back and staring at Flash because really? _Really?_ Was his life _this_ much of a made for TV special? Could he _not_ get a day where Flash was pretending to be Alpha Male? Like life was some sort of cosmic dick measuring contest?

“I’m gonna go wash my hands,” he muttered to Megan, who was working on the same banner. She ignored him and he couldn’t bring himself to care.

“Hey.”

Wade paused, head jerking to Pete’s voice, but he was just picking up Mia’s paint. 

“Alright?” he asked her. Wade turned back to the doors, deciding he was going to wash his hands and maybe text his dad. Maybe go to the bathroom. He wondered if the teacher’s lounge was open. He had a dollar and their vending machine always had the good snacks so maybe—

The ball came out of nowhere. One minute Flash was slamming it away from the basket, the next it was in Peter’s hand, his body stretched awkwardly to accommodate his odd balance. the ball had originally been three feet out of reach. Mia gaped at him. Peter looked at the ball, then her, wearily.

“Give it up, Parker,” Flash shouted. Pete looked at him, then the ball, then Mia and back, a small smile cresting his face. Suddenly, washing his hands was no longer high on Wade’s priority list. Peter handed his camera to Mia and walked to the middle of the court, “Why don’t you take it from me.”

Wade’s eyebrows rose as Flash let out a bark of laughter, striding up to Pete. He reached for the ball and suddenly, it was in Peter’s other hand. He tried not to smile. Wade did too with less success.

Wade tried to grab it again, but again it moved before he could see. Wade was even having trouble keeping up with Pete’s movements, which, yeah the guy was spastic, but he was never fast. Never this fast. Peter spun the ball round Flash’s head, turning him around before bouncing the ball off his back. People laughed, but Wade stayed silent, studying.

“Okay, just take it,” Pete held the ball in the palm of his hand. Flash didn’t move, frowning.

“Alright, how about this?” Pete covered his eyes, peaking to see if Flash would take the bait, “Alright?” he turned, facing away from Flash and the ball, hand still covering his eyes, “How about that?”

Flash rolled his eyes and made to grab the ball. It didn’t budge. Wade frowned, crossing his arms. Flash ground his feet in and pulled with both hands. Finally he gave up, walking away, embarrassed and angry as his team riled on him for giving up the ball so easily.

Peter looked satisfied and dribbled the ball a bit, smiling.

That just made Flash more pissed, “Alright, bring it, Parker! Come on!”

And Peter did, dribbling the ball once, twice, then shoving Flash to the ground and making an inhuman, Jordan Level jump from the foul line.

And breaking the backboard.

 

+_+

 

Wade sat on the roof for this one. Keeping as still as possible in the dark, watching Peter cross the street.

“Hey,” he heard him greet Ben below, “Hey, I thought you, uh…”

“Didn’t you forget something?” Ben asked, voice hard. Wade leaned his head against the outside of the house, closing his eyes. He’d been listening to this for the past hour, what’s one more hurt? Maybe he could go stay with his dad and Coulson tonight. Their couch _was_ really comfortable…

“What?” Pete’s phone rang.

“Now, don’t answer that, but I’m glad to know it’s working. You owe your aunt an apology big time,” there was a creaking, “Be a man. Get in there and apologize.”

The door opened and closed and Wade turned his head to the open window, to hear through the open bedroom door.

“I’m sorry, Aunt May, I uh…”

“Honestly you don’t have to apologize to me. It’s your—“

“The hell he doesn’t.”

“Ben,” May sounded firm, but Ben was livid.

“Look, I’m sorry, Uncle Ben. I got distracted—“

“Oh, he got distracted.”

“Yeah,” Pete sounded dejected, but it didn’t didn’t help his cause.

“Your aunt, my wife, had to walk 12 blocks alone in the middle of the night and then wait in a deserted subway station because _you_ got distracted.”

“Ben,” May said, her voice sharp, “Sweetheart, honestly I am completely capable of walking home—“

“You will not defend this boy!” Ben shouted.

“I’m not defending—“

“You are defending him! Listen to me, son.”

“Yeah, go ahead.”

Wade was surprised Ben didn’t get on him for that tone. God knew Wade’s dad would’ve skinned him for that. Let alone Coulson.

“You’re a lot like your father. You really are, Peter, and that’s a good thing. But your father lived by a philosophy, a principle, really. He believed that, that if you could do good things for other people, you had a _moral obligation_ to do those things. _That’s_ what’s at stake here. Not Choice. Responsibility.”

There was a moment of silence after Ben’s speech.

“That’s nice. That’s great,” Peter responded, but there was something wrong with his voice. It sounded higher, a bit strained, “That’s all well and good. So where is he?”

Wade closed his eyes again.

“What?”

“Where is he?”

There was silence.

“Where’s my dad? He didn’t think it was his responsibility to be here to tell me himself?”

“Oh, come on, how dare you.”

“How dare I? How dare _you_!” Peter all but shouted.

“Where're you going?”

There was a fumbling with the front door.

“Peter, come back here, please.”

The door slammed so hard the glass shattered. Wade winced and saw Peter’s shadow pause in the front porch light before moving again, becoming a silhouette on the street, hunched in his coat. 

“Peter!"

Wade got up and slid from the roof onto the trash cans in the alley and to the street, jogging after his friend.

“I’ll watch him,” he called to Ben on the porch.

“Wade, come back inside! Wade! Peter!”

 

+_+

 

They walked around the city for a while, not talking much. Wade got the feeling Pete was still angry, and honestly he didn’t want to add to the fire.

“Hey have you talked to Gwen?” he asked.

“Yeah,” Pete mumbled, “Between classes for a sec, why?”

“She just seemed happier today, figured you two had made up.”

Pete smiled, “Yeah something like that.”

“Good,” Wade slapped a hand on his shoulder, “Seriously I’m happy that’s out of the way. I was starting to feel like I was in an episode of Gossip Girl. I felt like any second there was going to be a cut to MJ making out with a teacher or Harry saying he had the clap or something.”

Peter huffed a laugh and Wade felt a little better for it. He put his arm further around Pete and gave him a short squeeze, “Come on, let’s go back.”

“Nah, not just yet,” Pete shook his head, shrugging off Wade’s arm in the process.

“What do you mean not just yet?”

"Not just yet,” Pete said again, “I’m thirsty, let me get some milk first.”

“Seriously?”

“It’ll just take a second, come on.”

Wade let out an exasperated sigh and jogged back to Peter’s side, bumping his shoulder companionably, “You’ll give me a sip right?”

“Yeah if you help pay for it.”

Wade rummaged in his pockets, only finding one crumpled bill, “I’ve only got a dollar.”

“Hey, me too. We’re set, let’s go.”

They walked in the convenience store and Peter grabbed the bottle, “Gimme your cash.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Wade handed over the ratty one and shuffled over to the snacks, poking at the peanuts before turning away, a pack of Twizzlers securely in his pocket, “I’ll be outside.”

Pete waved absently as he stepped up to the counter so Wade ducked out the door to wait. A few minutes later, the guy who’d been behind Peter, with long greasy hair and sunglasses (aka Mr. Hi I’m About To Rob You Blind), bolted out the far exit and Peter came out behind Wade.

“See how much he got?” Wade asked, holding out a Twizzler.

Peter shook his head and cracked open his milk, “Buncha twenties…”

Wade nodded, watching the dude go as the clerk came running out, “Hey stop! Somebody stop that guy!”

He looked around furiously before spotted Peter and Wade, “Hey, kid, little help?”

“Not my policy,” Pete shot back. Wade thought that was a little harsh, but from the look the clerk gave him and the satisfaction poring off Pete it was probably well deserved.

“Somebody stop that dude! Hey!” The clerk went tearing down the street and Wade and Peter began going the opposite direction. They could still hear the shouting a block later, until there was a crack. Like a tire popping. Or metal cracking in extreme temperature. Wade knew that sound like he knew his name, or his birthday. Like he knew his dad loved mac n cheese and Aunt Tasha loved to listen to someone playing a piano. He knew that sound like he knew how to breathe.

“We should check it out,” he said.

They crossed the street, Peter getting slower and slower as they got closer. Wade’s breath caught in his throat, his head jerked from Peter to Ben and back, his mind blank for what to do, “Pete—“

“Oh God, oh God,” Peter dropped to his knees, hands shaking as he applied pressure to the wound. Wade’s brain kicked back in action and he fumbled for his phone to call 911.

“ _911, what’s your emergency?_ ”

“Uncle Ben, Uncle Ben.”

“There’s been a man shot at uh…” Wade looked around him, one finger crammed in his ear to concentrate, “Aw shit…”

“ _CALL AN AMBULANCE!_ ”

“I don’t fucking _know_ where I am, just trace the fucking call.”

“ _Please stay calm sir—_ ”

“I _am_ calm! Just trace the fucking call!”

“Ohmygodohmygodohmygodunclebenuncleben…”

“Pete, it’s okay they’re on their way,” Wade bent down, but he could already see it was too late.

 

+_+

 

“Hey, Parker.”

Wade straightened from leaning on the locker next to Peter’s and tried to intercept Flash, “Don’t—“

But he pushed by, his eyes on Peter.

“Not today, Flash.”

“Come on, I just want to talk—“

Peter twisted and had him thrown against the locker, six inches off the ground. Flash gasped, eyes wide, but his voice barely wavered when he said, “Feels better, right?”

Wade kept his mouth closed, watching it all unfold.

“Look, your uncle died,” Flash said quietly, “I’m sorry.”

Peter’s lip trembled and Flash kept talking, “I get it. I’m sorry.”

Peter set him down, his face half buried in his own sleeve. Now it looked less like Flash was trying to stop Peter from choking him and more like he was holding Peter up. Holding him together.

“Okay?” Flash whispered.

Peter nodded, letting him go and grabbing his backpack from the ground. Wade clapped Flash on the shoulder as he walked by, giving him a single nod before catching up with Peter. Gwen tried to stop them, tried to give him a hug, but he brushed her off. Wade gave her an apologetic smile before following him.

 

+_+

 

“I hope you’re not trying to sneak out right now,” Wade said, not turning away from the wall. There was a scuff by the window then silence.

“Are you gonna stop me?”

“No,” Wade flipped off the covers, grabbed a shirt from the floor and a hoodie, “I’m coming with you.”

 

+_+

 

They looked for Mr. Rob You Blind all night. And while they looked, Peter told Wade everything.

 

+_+

 

It wasn’t until a few nights later they found anyone who even looked like him.

“Hey,” Peter strode towards the guy as he shoved the girl aside, “You like beating on girls? You like beating on old men?”

“Hey pal, keep on walking,” the guy said, “You’re in the wrong place, buddy."

“When was the last time you were in Queens?”

The guy drew a piece and the girl shouted, “Nicky, no!”

“Hey, Pete—“ Wade called, but Peter wasn’t listening.

“That the gun?” he asked, catching and twisting the guy’s arm until he dropped it, “You gonna kill me too?”

“Pete—“

Peter punched, the girl screamed, and Wade sighed, jumping in when a second, third, and fourth, guy seemed to jump out of the walls. He threw one to the pavement, and kicked the legs out from under the other, making it to Peter’s side as soon as he realized yeah, six to two? Not great odds.

“Get him!” someone shouted, but Pete and Wade were already bolting.

“Split up!” Pete shouted. Before Wade could contradict him with how terrible an idea that was, he’d already hopped an eight foot security fence and was gone. 

Right. Super powers. Nice.

Wade turned back to see four of the goons were after Pete, but two had stayed behind.

“Uh,” he said, looking for inspiration, “I’m not with him?”

One guy lunged sloppily at him. Wade stepped aside, eyebrows raised, pushing the guy as he went past so he tipped over and fell with a grunt. The second guy took a swing at him, but Wade ducked then shot back up and clapped his hands hard on either side of the guy’s head, making his ears ring. He jerked with a shout so Wade took the moment to stroll away. When the guy came at him again, he swept the dropped gun off the ground, turned and pointed it at the man’s head. He had no intention to shoot it. He didn’t need anything like that on his conscience. Besides, if he ever wanted to work for SHIELD, they couldn’t find something like two cold blooded murders in a back alley when he was almost 16 (so he had half a year or more to go, whatever, it counted). But the men didn’t know that. All they saw was a lanky teenager with blond, sleep rumpled hair, wearing a red hoodie and hold a gun with a blank face and a winning smile.

“Shoo,” he said. The men bolted. Wade dropped his arm then looked at the gun in his hand. The safety wasn’t on, which wasn’t very smart, especially down the guy’s pants—

Oh yeah, it had been down a guy’s pants. Wade winced and held the gun with two fingers, looking at the girl who was still cowering by the dumpster.

“Hey,” he said, trying for easy, calming, “Do you have, like, a napkin or a tissue, or something?”

She made a small squeak, nodding and rummaging through her purse until she shakily handed out a napkin with a phone number on it. Wade tore off the number and handed it back to her, then used the napkin to wipe down the gun.

He smiled again jerking his head in the universal _get outa here_ gesture and she was gone. He disassembled the gun, throwing different pieces in different trash cans and dumpsters before ducking into a Dunkin’ Donuts and using the napkin for it’s intended purpose for holding a tasty tasty treat without getting his fingers sticky and throwing it away in the proper receptacle.

 

+_+

 

“We need to get masks.”

Wade closed his locker, “Couldn’t agree more.”

 

+_+

 

“Spandex,” Peter said, clicking through the pictures, his head in his hand, “Spandex. Spandex. Everything. Is spandex.”

“I don’t know,” Wade shrugged, leaning over his shoulder, one hand on the back of his seat, the other balanced on the desk, “I think you’d look good in spandex.”

Peter glared at him.

“What?” Wade smiled.

 

+_+

 

“Dude,” Wade said, eyes huge, “Dude.”

“It’s tight,” Peter complained, pulling at the fabric, his face pinking.

Wade gulped, suddenly scared to try on his own suit, “You should test run it.”

 

+_+

 

“Dude,” Wade grinned behind his mask, “This is awesome. We are awesome.”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” Peter said, scanning the street below. 

Wade snorted and sat heavily, legs swinging freely over the edge, “What’s to not get ahead of? Just two buddies sitting on the edge of a building, dressed in _spandex_ ,” he pinched the fabric for emphasis and let it _thwap_ back into place against his chest, “about to go fight crime on the mean streets of the Big Apple. No big deal.”

Peter snorted as his phone rang. He sat next to Wade and dug around in his backpack for a moment, “Hey, Aunt May…. Yeah. Eggs?” Wade snorted and Peter smacked his arm to shut him up, “Organic, got it. Okay. Okay, I love you too—“

“Love you Aunt May!” Wade called.

“Wade says hi. Yeah we’re just working on a project. No, we’ll be home soon. Yeah. Yep. Okay. I love you. Bye.”

“You are just the bestest nephew,” Wade cooed, pinching Peter’s cheek through his mask. Pete swiped his hand away and stood again, throwing his backpack pack on.

“I’ll see you at the bottom,” Pete said.

“Wait, what?”

Peter looked at him, “What?”

“You’re just gonna leave me here?” Wade squawked.

If Wade could see Pete’s face, there would probably be a raised eyebrow, “You can take the elevator.”

“I am _not_ riding down the elevator looking like this!”

“You’re clothes are in your backpack, Wade.”

“That is not the point,” Wade stood too, “Just lend me one of your slingers.”

“What?” Peter scoffed, rolling his head, “No way. I need both of them. Take the elevator.”

“Dude!” Wade whined, “Just once! I’ll use it to get down then give it right back!”

“No.”

“Then carry me.”

“I am not carrying you, Wade.”

“Well, I’m not taking the elevator.”

“Then I guess you’ll just be staying here,” and with that, Pete jumped, shot, and swung away. Wade slumped back to the edge of the building, his arms crossed. Pete would come back and give him a lift down, he was sure of it. Mostly sure. Kind of sure.

“I need to get to R and D,” Wade muttered, leaning back to catch the last of the dying sun through the skyline. His suit was getting itchy.

He ended up taking the elevator.

 

+_+

 

“Wade was up when Peter got back, his face black and blue in the lamp light. Wade closed his book, but didn’t get up.

“Find him?”

Peter didn’t answer, just dropped his backpack and slumped to his bed. Wade had heard the fight with May, so he asked, “You wanna talk about it?”

“No, I don’t wanna talk about it,” Peter looked at his hands for a moment, “How do you do it?”

“What?”

Peter looked up, the bruising looked even worse this close, “How do you and your dad do it? How do you live with… with the secrets? And the lying and him aways being gone and stuff?”

Wade thought about it, “He tries not to lie to me. If he can’t tell me, he says so. I mean, I know more than I probably should about some stuff, but he’s my dad, you know? I trust him.”

“You trust him.”

“He does his best,” Wade shrugged.

Peter was silent for a moment, “Is that good enough?”

Wade opened his mouth to immediately say yes, then thought about it. He thought about Sidlce. He thought about holding his father’s skin together as he sowed himself shut. He thought about a dingy motel with a hole in the window. He thought about a rainy day in Tangier and sitting in a ferry terminal, his father on one knee in front of him with his hands on Wade’s arms saying, _"One more time.”_

“It has to be,” he said.

 

+_+

 

“So he’s state side,” Phil rubbed his eyes. Clint, who was on the couch finishing up a debrief, looked up with a quirked eyebrow. Phil shook his head minutely so Clint went back to his work.

“Affirmative,” Sitwell sounded tired.

“Where?”

“Culver University, but he’s on the move and he’s got Dr. Ross.”

“I’m sorry, what?”

Sitwell sighed and it’s must’ve been very audible because Clint looked up again, studying Phil across his desk, “The general sent a welcome wagon. Cost tax payers a pretty penny.”

“Was Banner hurt?”

“Not a scratch,” Sitwell seemed pleased with that, “Gave Blousey a run for his money though.”

“Blonsky,” Phil corrected.

“His name should be hamburger. The guy is not looking good.”

“I doubt he would after taking on… that,” they needed a code name other than The Big Guy for what Banner turned into, “Any idea where he’s headed next?”

“We were finally able to get the backpack he’d been wearing before Bluesy lost him in Brazil.”

“Blonsky.”

“Apparently he’s been having encrypted conversations with a man calling himself Mr. Blue. Banner was going by Mr. Green.”

“Informative,” Phil deadpanned.

“Turns out the mysterious Mr. Blue is Dr. Samuel Sterns, a professor at Grayburn College.”

“Mhmm,” Phil jotted down the name.

“So that’s most likely Banner’s next stop.”

“How long until he gets there?”

 

+_+

 

The lizard-man was new.

Sure Wade had seen it on the news (Who hadn’t?) but to see it in your school was… well definitely different. Wade was going to go with different.

Wade was leaning against the locker talking to Gwen and Peter (who were back to being even more chummy than before. She, for instance now knew about Peter and Wade, much to Wade’s displeasure) when the thing had come tearing out of the girls bathroom. Interesting choice of entrance. Not Wade’s first pick, but…

“Go, go! Get her out of here!” Peter, pushed Wade and Gwen to follow the running crowd, then turned to face it. Dr. Lizard. Wade wondered what the Bugle would be calling him tomorrow. They got to the entrance before Gwen wrenched out of his grasp, bolting back the way they’d come.

“No—Gwen!” Wade tore after her, following the destruction to the airway. The lizard formerly known as Conners had Peter’s head smashed to the glass, but before Wade could even process it, before he could grab Gwen, turn tail and run, or even attack Conners, Gwen had a giant trophy turned upside down and bashing hard against Conners scaly head. 

Lizard Conners dropped Pete and turned to her, growling, he went to hit her, but Peter was faster, spitting web and pulling Conners away. Wade took that moment to grab Gwen, holding her steady as her knees quaked. Peter wrapped Conners in a cocoon, holding him to the walls, floor and ceiling before shooting web at Gwen and dragging her from Wade’s hold, grabbed the trophy and throwing it through the window with a crash.

“I’m going to throw you through the window now.”

“What?” Gwen gasped then screamed, Peter’s web catching and securing her at the last minute. He turned on Wade, “I told you to keep her safe!”

“She’s faster than she looks!” He said defensively, then after a second, “Are you going to throw me next?”

Peter rolled his entire head, letting out a noise of frustration just as Conners roared, breaking through the web.

“Any ideas?” Wade asked, moving the Peter’s side.

“Got any weapons?” Pete asked.

“Not yet.”

“Okay uh…” Conners turned, glaring down at them both as sirens wailed in the distance, “Uh-oh. Somebodies been a bad lizard...”

Wade couldn’t help it. He looked down at Peter’s crouched form, “Seriously?”

Conners swung, throwing Pete through the far wall and making Wade flinch back, coving his head, “Pete!”

But they disappeared into the library. Wade ran through the gaping hole, just as Conners threw Peter at the far wall and advanced. Wade didn’t know what else to do, “Hey!”

Conners turned, looking straight at Wade.

“Run!” Wade shouted. Conners growled, turning to face him, “Nonono!” Wade held up his hands placatingly, his mind racing, “Th-th-the sirens! There almost here! If you don’t run now you’ll never get away!”

Conners looked to the sound then back at Wade. Peter stirred.

“Have you heard of SHIELD?” Wade asked, taking a step forward, his hands still up, “If you don’t get out of here soon a whole bunch of agents are going to come flooding in here. They’re going to take you an-and him and me and ask us a whole bunch of questions we can’t answer and they’ll hold you and they'll cage you…”

Conners growled, looking a little more unsure towards the sirens.

“If you don’t leave now, they’ll get you,” he said, trying to keep his voice low and dangerous. Conners looked once at the sirens, then at Wade, growled once more, and fled. Wade ran to Peter’s side immediately, helping him gain his feet.

“Where’d he go?” Peter slurred.

“He’s gone,” Wade said, “C’mon, let me get you outside.”

Peter brushed him off and stumble-ran back the way they’d come. Wade made an exasperated flopping motion and followed close behind. The only thing left of the bathroom was a hole and an interestingly well placed OsCorp lab coat.

“I’m going after him,” Pete ducked as if to slip in the hole, but Wade grabbed his arm.

“What, are you stupid?” He asked, his voice going a little higher than usual, “Just let him go.”

“I can’t, Wade!” Peter wrenched his arm away.

“Why not?”

“Because I did this,” Peter said, “Okay? Me. I’m the one who gave Conners the formula. I’m the one who gave him hope.”

“You didn’t make him try the shot,” Wade pointed out.

“I still started this,” Peter said severely, “Im going to end it.”

“I’ll come with you.”

“No. Stay here.”

“Pete—“

“I need someone to run interference.”

“Gwen can do that,” Wade waved his arm agitatedly.

“I need you to do it,” Peter told him, putting his hands on Wade’s shoulders, “You were raised by spies, you can get out of anything. Please.”

Wade glared at his best friend, then the hole behind him, “I hate you.”

“Thank you,” Peter squeezed his shoulders before dropping into the depths and calling, “I’ll call you!”

“I hate you!” Wade shouted again, then shoved his hands deep in his jacket pockets and stormed away, out into the waiting arms of medics.

And Agent Coulson.

 

+_+

 

“Tell me what’s going on,” Phil said.

Wade looked up through his lashes uncertainly, looking for all the world exactly like his father ready for a dress down. 

“Wade,” Phil said dangerously, “I know you know what’s going on.”

Wade looked up at that, his eyes impossibly round.

“All of it?” he asked weakly.

“Everything.”

“But I thought you would already—"

“You think we’ve been sitting on our hands while of couple kids run around taking down bad guys and a giant lizard terrorizes New York?”

Wade hesitated, “So you know—“

“Everything,” Phil said, “Now I want you to tell me what _you_ know.”

“I mean if you know everything—“

“Wade,” Phil cut off, “I am not in the mood.”

Wade hesitated again, then sighed slumping, then started talking, not looking up until he was done.

“Alright,” Phil crossed his arms, thinking, “Your father doesn’t know his son has taken to being a masked vigilante. Yet.”

Wade’s shoulders loosened when Phil said that, then he looked worried, “Where is he?"

“On a mission,” Phil replied and at the hurt look on Wade’s face he explained, “It just came up two days ago, but he’s still in town. It’s just a protection detail.”

“Oh,” Wade looked more relaxed.

“I want you and Peter to come by the office tomorrow,” Phil said, “All of us, including your father, are going to have a long talk about all this and figure out where to move from there. Am I clear?”

Wade’s face fell, but he nodded, looking chastened.

Phil’s heart went out to the kid. He understood wanting to protect something bigger than himself. Without a word he placed a hand on Wade’s shoulder, giving him a small hug, “Tomorrow.”

Wade nodded and Coulson left him with his thoughts.

 

+_+

 

Tomorrow never came. Instead there was mass chaos and destruction in which Captain Stacey was murdered, Conners was taken into custody, and Wade lost a bit of himself as he watched his best friend fight to keep it together. Gwen stopped talking to them again, needing time after her father’s death, and they gave it to her, Peter staying as far away as possible. Wade knew he felt responsible; Captain Stacey had been saving him, after all, and Wade didn’t know how to comfort him. Not without making it worse.

It turned out their escapade was overshadowed by the destruction just uptown. A giant green monster fighting an even bigger grey monster over the rooftops of Harlem. Wade remembered hearing roars, but he’d assumed at the time it had been Conners.

SHIELD was able to keep both scenes under wraps. Covering up Peter and Wade’s mess entirely while down playing "The Hulk". 

Wade thought that was a pretty catchy name.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Questions, Comments, Concerns, Critiques, Kudos...
> 
> Honestly y'all know the drill by now I don't have to badger you :)


	17. Of Having Cake and Making Beds

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, ya'll remember that snails pace I was working at before?
> 
> eheheheheheh....
> 
> Yeah I'm sorry it may just get a bit slower.

The apartment was eerily silent. Clint stood, arms crossed, face muted, and stared hard at his son. Wade didn’t make eye contact, instead staring at his hands while Peter sat next to him, silently picking at a loose string on his jeans. Clint could feel Phil’s blank eyes on his neck, sitting on one of the red barstools, hands clasped in his lap, just watching the proceedings. 

“Why.”

It wasn’t really a question, but Clint still wanted an answer. He watched his son’s shoulders tighten, still refusing to look up.

“It’s not his fault—“

“I did not ask you, Peter,” Clint snapped, every word getting it’s own emphasis, “I asked _my son_ ,” his gaze dragged back to Wade, “Why.”

Wade opened his mouth. Clint could see him working on a reply, building and discarding excuses with every twitch of his jaw until he finally gave up, shoulders slumping and mumbled, “No excuses, sir.”

Clint’s frown deepened, “You have two options,” Clint said evenly, “You can get your ass back to base—“

Wade’s head snapped up, eyes round. Peter looked at his best friend, then Clint in confusion.

“—and finish your high school diploma where I can keep an eye on you—“

“What?” Peter said, alarmed just as Wade nearly squeaked, “Dad no!”

“—or,” Clint held up a hand, both boys going silent, “You get chipped. With daily check ins.”

Wade’s face dropped, looking hurt and horrified, “Dad—“

“Either way you are giving up this save the city bullshit,” Clint said, voice just staying even, “No more Deadpool. No more Spider-Man. Am I clear.”

“Dad—“

“ _Am. I. Clear._ ”

Wade’s mouth snapped shut, face going pail and hard as he looked back at his hands, “Yes, sir.”

“Peter?”

“Yeah. Yes. Yes, sir.” Peter fumbled, his eyes going everywhere but Clint’s face. Clint let out a breath. He was angry. He was _so_ angry at his kid, at himself… None of this would have happened if he hadn’t been more present in Wade’s life. He was starting to think letting Wade move in with the Parkers had been a huge mistake, and now… 

Now was his time to rectify it. Honestly, Clint hadn’t wanted to give him a choice. He wanted to tell his son the facts: the world was dangerous, he wasn’t invincible, and sooner or later someone was going to come along and teach him that lesson too thoroughly for even Clint to fix. He was scared to lose his son. And this was the only way he knew how to protect him.

“What’s your decision Wade?” Clint asked, deadly quiet.

Wade looked up, his eyes dark, his face a sold block of silent anger and pain, “Chip.”

Clint kept himself in check, face just as blank as ever even as his stomach dropped. Chipping had never been an actual option, Clint had been convinced Wade would move back to base before getting that shot. Clint had it, but it was common for Field Specialists; people who weren’t sure they were coming home every mission. For Wade…

For Wade it was choosing to take away all freedoms. He couldn’t go anywhere without Clint knowing about it. Couldn’t talk to anyone without Clint finding out. Once the chip was on, it was recording everything, from heart rate to how many steps he’d taken. For Clint it was protection. For Wade it was a life sentence.

“Fine.”

If anything, Wade’s face went darker. Peter looked panicked by his side, eyes flicking from Clint to Wade and back.

“Sir, it wasn’t his fault,” he said again.

“That’s enough, Peter,” Clint replied sternly as Wade whispered, “Dude, shut up.”

“You can’t,” Peter looked between the two again, “You can’t _chip_ him like a stray dog that’s—“

“Peter!” Wade hissed, quiet and angry.

“That’s inhumane!”

Wade grabbed his best friend’s knee, corralling all of his attention with a single move, “Just shut up, okay?”

“Why are you doing this?” Peter was starting to sound strangled, “Why are you _letting_ him do this?” he turned all his teenage rage on Clint, “ _How could you do this?_ ”

“Because I can’t be there all the time,” Clint said, feeling frustrated, but trying not to let it show, “Because I can’t have Agents following my son around to make sure he’s making good choices.”

_Because I don’t trust him,_ hung heavy and unsaid in the air. The silence lengthened after the admission until Wade stood. He was inches taller than his father now, Clint noticed, but all his son did was ask, “When are we doing this?”

“Agent Coulson,” Clint said.

“You have an appointment for eight tomorrow morning,” the Senior Agent replied, calmly. Wade nodded once, then turned, muttering, “Let’s go.”

Peter was on his feet and at Wade’s heels by the time the door closed behind them. All in that moment Clint felt the walls go up. His hand shook as he covered his face, taking deep breaths while he tried to focus himself. He wanted to kill something. He wanted to yell and hit and scream and bleed until all he could feel was numb. He felt like his chest was going a thousand different directions at once and the only thing stopping it was his skin, at once too tight and too itchy to be anything but a body bag two sizes too small. He covered his face more forcefully with both palms, rubbing and rubbing until all he could see was stars and the tears felt more like sweat. He felt Phil place a hand on his shoulder, but it wasn’t as comforting as it usually was. He’d just lost his son, that part was blatantly apparent.

He’d just lost his son, and there was nothing he could do about it.

 

+_+

 

Wade was quiet a lot. He could feel himself withdrawing, absently rubbing his arm constantly, wearing long sleeves just to cover up a small prick, barely an eighth of an inch wide (he’d measured). He didn’t shower as much for fear of seeing the reminder, not willing to go beyond his bed most days. When people talked to him he sneered, gave them black humor and biting words. He wanted everyone to know he hurt. He wanted everyone to feel his pain.

“Wade, c’mon everyone’s going out,” Pete said on night, “They’ve all missed you, man.”

Wade looked up from his english book at Peter in his faded jeans, artfully wrinkled button up and the glasses. Those _stupid fucking_ glasses.

Wade snorted, turning back to his book, “Yeah I don’t think so.”

“Why not?” Pete sighed and all the sudden Wade was furious.

“Oh I don’t know,” Wade replied condescendingly, holding his place with a finger so he could give Peter his full attention because he was so obviously _dying_ for it, “Probably because I don’t want to watch you and Stacey play tonsil hockey all night. Or it could be wanting to avoid ripping my eyes out when dear Harold starts yammering on about is childish, irrelevant theories. But wait maybe,” Wade sat up as if a thought had just struck him, “Maybe it's because I hate your stupid friends. Maybe I don’t give a shit about any of you.”

His face turned into a thoughtful frown for a moment, as if mulling the idea over, then shrugged and laid back down, pulling open his book. He could feel Peter staring at him, but couldn’t read his face without glancing over.

“Fuck you, dude,” Peter breathed, turning to leave.

“I’ll get right on that,” Wade replied turning the page, but before Peter could close the door all the way he called sarcastically, “Have a safe night! Make good choices!”

The door slammed and Wade didn’t feel any more satisfied.

 

+_+

 

His dad called him daily. Their conversations were brief: one before school and one before he went to bed. It was a constant reminder of how much of a cage Wade’s life had become. Peter continued his life. He still did heroic shit because Agent Barton and Agent Coulson couldn’t collar him like they could Wade, had even promised not to say anything to May. Wade chafed with the knowledge. Knowing his best—knowing Peter was out there breaking up trouble while Wade did homework. The fact that Peter no longer had backup was…

Wade took that knowledge out on a punching bag three nights a week. He was becoming a fucking regular at the gym now, with people eyeing him up and down as he started losing his gangly limbs to muscle. He hated it. Hated the attention, hated the guys starting to get all aggressive like they could take him on, hated the bag for not fighting back. That was one thing he couldn’t bring himself to do; if he started fights he’d be locked up in SHIELD so fast he’d be no better than a prisoner, even more so than he was now. No, he’d take it out on bags and mats, and pretend he really was working out all his frustration.

He was going round three on a bag with some dude behind him looking butt hurt because Wade had hogged it for so long when his phone went off. Right now the ringtone was set to that Lily Allen song he was feeling on a visceral level so he was smiling when he answered the call, “Hello?”

“Wade,” Clint greeted.

“Yeah?” Wade moved to the bench, letting the guy waiting get a few punches in while he got some water.

“Where are you?” Clint asked. Wade wanted to throw his phone against the wall, he was so angry.

_Can’t you tell, Fucktard?_ “The gym,” Wade said, taking a sip of water.

“The gym Sitwell told me about?”

And in that moment, Wade fucking _hated_ Sitwell, “Yeah.”

“Okay,” Clint seemed to be gathering his thoughts, “I’m heading out of town for a week.”

“Okay.”

“I won’t be able to call while I’m gone.”

“Okay,” Wade wasn’t sure why this information was being given to him at all.

There was a long bout of silence after that. One Wade refused to break.

Clint sighed, “I need to talk to you before I go.”

“Okay.”

“Face to face.”

Wade didn’t answer. He didn’t want to see this guy. Didn’t even want to be in the same space as him. But then again he didn’t have much choice did he?

“Okay.”

“Can you come into the city?”

Wade pulled his phone away from his ear to check the time. 5:02. He’d told May he’d be home by seven. He put the phone back to his ear and said, “Yeah.”

“I’ll meet you at that Mexican place in 20 minutes.”

“Fine,” And he hung up, throwing his phone into his bag and beginning the long process of unwinding his wraps. By the time he got there he was ten minutes late, but Clint didn’t seem to mind, just motioned him to the seat across from him and waited for Wade the dump his backpack and gym bag in the seat between them. They ordered drinks and chips, but didn’t touch either when they arrived.

“I want to talk to you about what you might expect while I’m gone,” Clint started. Wade didn’t look at him, but listened anyway.

“It’s been a month since your last incident, so I’m changing your calls to once every other day, alright?”

Wade just shrugged, finally going for a chip. He wasn’t hungry, but he needed to do something with his hands.

“While I’m gone, either Sitwell or Aunt Tasha will call you.”

“Aunt Tasha’s on assignment,” Wade pointed out.

“She’ll be able to swing it.”

And wow did that phrase really piss Wade off. Now all he could think about was fucking Peter leaving him on a God damn roof while he went to buy groceries.

“And,” Clint seemed to take a deep breath for this next one, “I’ve decided to turn off your tracker.”

Wade’s eyes flicked to his father, chip halfway to his mouth.

“From now on it will be for emergency purposes only,” Clint became stern at this point, leaning forward in his seat, “But you can not abuse this, alright, Wade? I’m trusting you to be responsible. I’m trusting you to stay out of trouble and to keep yourself safe.”

“What if I can’t?” Wade challenged, sitting up just a fraction from his slump, “What if I get in a fight or get mugged or something?”

“This isn’t a joke, Wade.”

“I know, Dad, I’m just saying what am I supposed to do then?”

Clint’s eye narrowed and damn if that look didn’t make Wade falter.

“You go to the authorities,” Clint said, “You let me or Tasha or Coulson know. You do not take it into your own hands.”

“Yeah, but what about—“

“Stop,” Clint held up his hand, keeping it low, “Wade, I know it doesn’t look like it, but I’m trying to protect you. The world is too screwed up for you to think you can take it on your own. I know I’ve messed up hundreds of times before now and I’ll probably mess up a hundred times more, but you are not allowed to do the same. You are the greatest part of my life, the absolute best decision I have ever made, and I can not allow you to make the same mistakes I did.”

Wade didn’t say anything, just stared at his father, heart swelling.

Clint stared at him a moment longer before sitting back in his chair, “Promise me you’ll stay safe.”

“I promise,” Wade replied quietly.

“And promise me you’ll pick up the phone every time it rings.”

“I promise.”

“No more vigilanty-ing.”

“Yes, sir.”

Clint stared a moment longer, then held out his hand, “All right.”

The last thing Wade wanted to do was touch his father, but his still held out his hand, clasping the proffered fingers before letting them go. And that was enough; they ordered food, and didn’t speak for the rest of the meal.

 

+_+

 

Phil could tell something was wrong. This was beyond his sense as a handler, this was seeing the stress of a friend. Barton—Clint (because he was Clint, he was a friend, they were living together for Christ’s sake he may as well get used to it) was not happy. He sat on the couch in their little safe house, blearily looking at a small black remote in one hand, while a beer rested on his thigh in the other. Clint looked up at Phil as if he’d just realized he was there, giving him the impression he was few bottles in already. Clint motioned him to take a seat, so Phil sat on the coffee table, watching his… well his friend. He may not know what’s going through Clint’s head, but there was no doubt this was not about the mission they’d just finished. He knew what the remote meant.

“Did I make the right decision?” Clint said slowly, not looking up from his hands. Phil didn’t answer. Didn’t feel he needed to answer.

“Yeah, you’re probably right,” Clint closed his eyes, allowing his head to roll back on the couch, the beer held precariously in his fingers.

Phil took the bottle from his hand and set it on the coffee table before turning his full attention once more to his asset.

“What’s on your mind?” he asked quietly.

“My son,” Clint answered honestly, “I’ve never screwed it up this bad before, you know?”

Phil made a humming noise in answer, because he couldn’t know, “Did he seem okay when you talked to him?”

“Yeah,” Clint sighed, closing his eyes.

“Then it should be okay, don’t you think?” Phil asked.

“Yeah,” Clint covered his eyes with a hand and let out a great long sigh, “No.”

“Are you still worried?”

“I’m always worried,” Clint replied, trying to focus on Phil, “He’s my son. He’s…” Clint waved his hand as if dispelling invisible flies and Phil grabbed it before he could accidentally punch himself, “He’s going to make bad decisions that seem good at the time and not regret them. That’s what I do. I don’t regret them. But I don’t want him to turn out like me. I just don’t want that, you know?”

Phil nodded, still holding Clint’s hand for some reason. But Clint wan’t pulling away, so Phil wash’t going to draw attention to it, “Have you talked to him since you left?”

“Eyes only remember?” Clint said, sending Phil a rueful smile, “Can’t go beyond the chain of command.”

Phil nodded again, because he did know, but he would’ve let this one slide. Honestly, he would let a lot slide for Clint, mostly because he knew he would’t abuse the privilege. Phil sighed, squeezing Clint’s hand before letting it go.

“Hey, no, don’t do that,” Clint looked worriedly at his hand then Phil.

“Do what?” Phil asked.

“Let go,” Clint held out his hand again, “I was enjoying that.”

Words caught in Phil’s throat. He opened his mouth once, twice, before saying, “I’m just going to get a beer."

“You’re a good guy, Phil,” Clint said, letting his arm drop, his head resting once more on the back of the couch, “A really good guy. How did I get lucky enough to know such a guy?”

Phil’s heart stuttered for a moment as he pulled a bottle from the back of the fridge, “Clint, you’re drunk.”

“Yeah,” Clint said, covering his eyes as Phil came back around the couch, “Yeah I know. That for me?”

Phil motioned to the beer still on the coffee table, “That’s for you.”

Clint leaned forward to grab it, but leaned back with out taking a sip, just resting the warming glass on his thigh, “You know what Nat thought when she first saw Wade?”

Phil shook his head, knowing even if Clint wasn’t looking he’d see the motion.

“She thought he was a cover,” Clint chuckled, “Then she thought he was some sort of... protégé or something.”

Phil couldn’t help huffing a laugh at that, taking a small sip from his bottle, “First time I saw you in Morocco, I thought there’s no way this is the same guy we’ve been chasing.”

“First time I saw you in Morocco…” Clint’s voice had dropped, taking on a serious tone, “I thought that was it.”

Phil looked at Clint as he killed his beer, staring at the label when he was done, lost in thought, “I figured I had maybe ten minutes before you came to pick us up. I must’ve done everything I could think of to lose you.”

“You did,” Phil told him, “We didn’t catch wind of you again until Paris. And by then we knew if we didn’t move fast, we’d never find you.”

Clint snorted, glancing up with a rueful smile, “Thanks for not shooting me, by the way.”

“If you hadn’t missed the building, I probably would have.”

Clint full on belly laughed at that and Phil couldn’t help his grin widening. Clint looked at his hand, still clutching the black remote and, like a switch went off, his good mood faltered, “I’m a really shitty human being, huh.”

“No,” Phil couldn’t stop himself from saying, “Just human.”

Clint snorted, the sound coming out pained and patted Phil’s knee, “Yeah.”

He didn’t sound like he believed it, and in that moment it took all of Phil’s power not to lean over a wrap him in a hug, hissing fiercely, _You’re a good man and a good father. This was a mistake and you know it. You know you over stepped and you’re fixing it as best you can._

Instead Phil did the next stupidest thing. He curled his hand around Clint’s still on his knee, giving it a small squeeze, but not pulling away. Clint stared at their hands, eyes trying to focus as his fingers spasmed under Phil’s. He took a ragged breath and said quietly, “I should go to bed.”

“Okay,” Phil’s voice was just as quiet.

Clint looked up at him, eyes darting around his face as if he wanted to say something more, but only managed a nod before getting up, hand sliding out from under Phil’s at the last second. Or maybe Phil had been holding on.

+_+

Wade was up when Pete slipped through the window, pulling off his mask and haphazardly tossing it on his bed.

“I heard about the crash,” Wade said.

Pete jumped then glared, probably waiting for a punchline.

Wade couldn’t blame him, “I’m sorry.”

Pete snorted, turning away to begin the process of pulling off his suit. Wade looked away to give him some privacy.

“So what?” Pete finally asked, pulling on sweatpants and an old shirt before dropping on his bed, “You’re just gonna say sorry and that’s it?”

“I’m an ass?” Wade tried, “I was upset and handled it wrong?”

“Yeah,” Pete snorted, pulling his mask from under him, “Way wrong.”

Wade didn’t know what else to say, “I’m sorry.”

“That’s not good enough,” Peter snapped, “After the way you treated us? You said Harry was slumming it because he was kicked out of prep school! You all but called MJ a whore!”

Wade grimaced, ashamed, but Peter wasn’t done, “We tried to be there for you! We tried to get you to talk and hang out, but all _you_ wanted to do was sit there and mope.”

“They don’t know what’s going on,” Wade muttered his only defense.

“Yeah but _I do_ ,” Peter was almost shouting, “ _I_ know you’re in an impossible situation! _I_ know you’re in some secret government dog house for trying to help people! _I know everything_! And I was the _first_ person you shut out!”

“I’m sorry,” Wade struggled to find a silver lining, “I talked to my dad.”

Peter’s face went weary, and Wade wondered what that meant, “Oh yeah? What’d he say?”

“He turned it off,” Wade said, motioning to his arm, “The tracker.”

And just like that Pete’s face completely shut down, “Oh that’s nice. That’s great. So you got what you wanted and now you’re willing to be friends again?”

Wade blinked, horrible realization of what this must looked like washing over him, “No—“

“You know I think that says a lot about you, Wade,” Peter said, voice cold, “What kind of person you are, y'know?”

Then he got to his feet, walking from the room, but turned at the last minute, "You really are an ass. You were my best friend, but as soon as shit went down hill for you, you bailed without a second look."

Wade desperately tried to think of something to stop him, something to have him stay so Wade could explain better, “Pete—“

“Shut up,” Peter said, and closed the door with a firm click behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As usual thank you for your support in all this. Seriously I truly appreciate it.
> 
> Comments, questions, concerns, kudos, etc... you know what's up.
> 
> Oh also, [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IPZuYwYxnL4) is the referred to Lily Allen song. :)


	18. Age: 16, Sense vs Sentiment

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was a long time coming and I apologize for that. All you still hanging on I thank you, y'all are the best. My semester is over and I've got a few weeks before the next colossal bum rush so something else should be up soon.
> 
> Or something.
> 
> (Oh and don't hate the boys they're doing the best they can...)
> 
> EDIT: I AM A TERRIBLE PERSON SHOUT OUT TO [MARLEYGOAT](http://archiveofourown.org/users/marleygoat/pseuds/marleygoat) FOR THE EXQUISITE BETA. THANK YOU DEAR, YOU'RE BEAUTIFUL AND I TRUELY APPRECIATE IT.

Since the mission something had gone wrong between Phil and Clint. They worked just as well as ever, Clint still snarked and created an ungodly amount of paperwork, Phil still got on him for it until Clint brought him coffee (and completed AARs within a week). But at the apartment, Clint kept his distance. What had gone from casual mornings with quiet conversations became half grunts with no eye contact. Phil knew it was his fault. He’d obviously done something wrong, he just wasn’t sure what (he knew exactly what, he didn’t want to admit he’d ruined it by being comforting, that Clint had probably thought his hand holding in solidarity was something different, something more but it wasn’t, _it wasn’t_ ). So he gave Clint his distance and buried himself in paperwork, drowning his feelings in memos, briefings, and anything else he could get his hands on. To say he breezed through three weeks worth of backlog in a few days would be extreme, but not altogether untrue. He started going home late again (a habit he’d mostly broken after Clint moved in), and leaving for the office early. He wasn’t proud of himself, these were the most blatant acts of avoidance, but he couldn’t help it. He didn’t want to make Clint uncomfortable, but he couldn’t bring himself to talk about it with his asset either.

"Hey."

Coulson looked up to Clint, feeling his chest tighten minutely before he asked, "Everything alright?"

"Yeah," Clint scratched the back of his neck, "I'm taking Wade and the Parkers out to dinner tonight."

Phil paused a moment, “Okay.”

Clint nodded, shifting on his feet before moving as if to leave, then turning back, mouth open to speak. Phil waited. He felt strung out and awkward, as if his body was too big and his space was too small, but he didn’t move. He didn’t want to break the silence, the closest he’d been to Clint in what felt like weeks. He realized mentally that he would probably wait forever for Clint if his friend asked. He couldn’t bring himself to think it was pitiful.

“I know,” Clint started haltingly, fingers tapping at the door frame, “we’ve been distant. I just wanted to say sorry.”

“There’s no need,” was Phil’s automatic answer, he swallowed and tried again awkwardly, “I haven’t been around either. I’ll work on it.”

“No that’s…” Clint sucked at his teeth, looking at the floor and knocking once on the door frame before stepping fully into the office, leaning on Phil’s couch with his arms crossed, gaze level, “I’m trying to say I’m sorry. I'm not saying I’m wrong or you’re wrong, I’m saying there’s something broken and I want to fix it. I know the… I know the last mission was…”

And here Clint seemed to lose steam, sinking a little into himself as he thought.

“Weird,” Phil supplied, forcing himself to stay open when all he wanted to do was close off, “I over stepped as your handler—“

“No, see, you didn’t,” Clint straightened, “I needed a friend and you were there for me, and there’s nothing wrong with that. I appreciated it.”

A flash of hands entwined in dim light swept across Phil’s memory. A slight squeeze and a dazed stare. _I should go to bed_.

“When I say I’m sorry,” Clint was trying again, “I mean I’m sorry something happened that made this—us—out of sync. I don’t like it and I want—“

_I want to be friends again._

_I want us back._

_I want you._

Phil’s heart stuttered in his chest, two great loud thumps, and suddenly he couldn’t let Clint finish that sentence. He didn’t want to know the last few words, “I know.”

Clint looked up, a flush barely creeping up his neck and ears.

“I understand,” Phil tried again, his lip lifting slightly, his eyes over warm.

Clint’s own small smile nearly broke Phil’s heart, “Yeah?”

Phil swallowed every single word wanting to burst from him in that moment, only letting one escape, “Yeah."

 

+_+

 

Natasha hated bureaucracy. She hated the paperwork, the circle jerk, the glad-handing, and the passive aggression. In the few years working for SHIELD, she realized she was more of a doer and that was fine with her. The problem was she was really _good_ at bureaucracy, so when Fury started getting itchy about Stark again after the billionaire made a few… unorthodox sales, even for him, Fury put her in the field for an evaluation. It was the last thing Natasha wanted to do.

“The notary’s here!” Pepper called, leading the way into a gym with a gorgeous view of the water, “Can you please come sign the transfer paperwork?”

“I’m on Happy time,” Stark replied. Natasha couldn’t see him yet, but he sounded tired, there were a few more thumps of boxing gloves hitting pads before silence and muttering.

“It’s called dirty boxing, there’s nothing new about it,” came a sharp voice just as Natasha turned the corner, "Alright, put ‘em up. Come on.”

Natasha took in the scene, pausing while she found the eyes of first Pepper Potts, then Happy Hogan, before Stark’s confused look morphed quickly into startled captivation. Natasha stood a moment longer, eyes flicking up and down Stark’s black-clad form before moving to Ms. Potts.

“I promise you this is the only time I will ask you to sign over your company,” Potts said, glancing up from her phone at Tony, then Natasha with a charming smile.

Natasha smiled back, getting down to business, “I need you to initial each box….”

There was a thump, a grunt, and as Natasha looked up, Stark was wailing on Happy until he tapped out. She tried to identify what form he was trying to emulate, but all she could tell was some sort of bastardized martial art.

Stark grabbed a water bottle full of something dark green and too runny to be a smoothy before pointing at her, “What’s your name, lady?”

Natasha stood straighter, “Rushman. Natalie Rushman.”

“Front and center. Come into the church.”

“No, you’re seriously not gonna ask her t—” Potts started immediately.

Tony cut her off, “If it pleases the court, which it does.”

“It’s no problem,” Natasha assured, putting on a professional smile.

"I’m sorry,” Potts apologized, “He’s very eccentric.”

Stark lifted the rope and Natasha slid through, making sure to take an extra second standing up. Stark took a sip of his green drink, watching her. She patiently stared back, waiting with an open expression.

“What?” Stark asked.

Natasha blinked, but didn’t answer.

Stark nodded with a smirk, as if she’d given the most thorough and exacting answer he’d ever heard, then motioned to Happy, “Can you give her a lesson?”

“No problem,” Happy replied. Natasha watched Stark go, trying to catch his and Pott's conversation, but they were too far away and Happy had entered her space.

“Hey, nice to meet you, I’m Happy,” Happy introduced, “Sorry I can’t shake your hand or anything…”

“It’s fine,” Natasha replied with a small smile, “I’m Natalie.”

“Natalie, what a pretty name.”

“Thank you.”

“Come over here, Natalie, let’s see what you can do.”

Natasha glanced back to Stark and Potts, heads close and muttering before stepping closer to the center of the ring.

“Have you ever thrown a punch?” Happy asked, bouncing slightly on his toes, “Have you ever boxed before?”

“I have, yes,” Natasha replied, keeping her smile engaging.

“What, like, the Tae Bo? Booty Boot Camp? Crunch? Something like that?”

Natasha shifted, clearing her throat. It had been a long time since she’d been talked down to like that. Well, talked down to and not able to immediately correct the mistake.

“How do I spell your name, Natalie?” Stark called.

“R-U-S-H-M-A-N,” Natasha replied over her shoulder. She turned back to Happy as he clumsily walked her through the basics of stance, hand placement… Natasha looked back to Stark and Potts, frustrated she couldn’t hear what they were talking about.

She felt rather than saw Happy smirk behind her, “Rule number one, never take your eye off your oppone—“

Natasha turned back, reached up and grabbed his glove, turning it sharply, using the momentum to swing her legs around he neck and the rest of her weight to flip him over. He landed with a loud grunt as Natasha put him in a submission hold.

“Oh my God!” Potts shrieked, “Happy!”

Natasha was instantly on her feet, adjusting her slacks as Stark approached the ring saying, “That’s what I’m talking about.”

“I just slipped,” Happy said, getting gingerly to his feet.

“You did?” Stark sounded amused, ringing the bell twice.

“Yeah.”

“Looks like a TKO to me,” Stark replied.

Natasha climbed out of the ring, sliding back into her flats, “Uh, just um…” Natasha trying to make herself sound out of breath before facing Stark head on, “I need your impression.”

“You have a quiet reserve,” Stark started immediately, "I don’t know, you have an old soul...”

“I meant your fingerprint,” Natasha pulled her portfolio off the edge of the ring where she’d placed it, smiling ruefully.

“Right,” Stark, glanced at Potts, then leaned in to mark the paper.

“So, how are we doing?” Potts smiled, standing in front of them.

Stark cleared his throat, “Great. Just wrapping up. Hey,” he pointed to his thumbprint at the top of the paper, “You’re the boss.”

Natasha snapped the portfolio shut and set it on her hip with a coy smile, “Will that be all Mr. Stark?”

“Yes,” Potts said just as Stark replied, “No,” but Potts continued talking over him, “That will be all Ms. Rushman. Thank you very much.”

Natasha nodded, and ducked out, but not before she heard Stark an Potts’ last exchange.

“I want one.”

“No.”

 

+_+

 

“Mr. Stark?”

“Hey,” Stark greeted, taking off his sunglasses. Potts looked pissed, but Natasha ignored it, smiling accommodatingly.

“How was your flight?” she asked.

“It was excellent,” he replied, taking a drink from an offered tray, “Boy, it’s nice to see you.”

“We have one photographer from the ACM, if you don’t mind.”

Stark ignored her. She took the drinks from his and Potts’ hands, setting them back on the tray they’d arrived on, “Okay?”

“Mhmm,” Stark smiled at Potts as they started a gritted teeth discussion. Natasha pretended not to listen, but it was hard what with how much they sounded like an old married couple.

“Right this way,” Natasha moved off to lead the pair to their table.

“You look fantastic,” Stark commented, striding to her side.

“Why, thank you very much—”

“But that’s unprofessional,” he continued as if she’d never spoken, “What’s on the docket?”

“You have a 9:30 dinner.”

“Perfect, I’ll be there at 11.”

“Absolutely,” Natasha mentally ran through how to edit the schedule as Stark asked, “Is this us?”

Natasha took a deep breath, clasping her hands behind her back in irritation, “It can be.”

“Great. Make it us.”

“Okay,” Natasha moved off to talk to the maître d’ as Stark and Potts moved to the bar.

Suddenly she understood why Coulson nearly broke out in hives when Stark was mentioned. This was going to be a lot harder than she’d thought.

 

+_+

 

Phil pulled out his phone, turning away from the bank of computers in front of him, “Coulson.”

“Ivan Vanko,” Fury drawled.

“No,” Phil stated immediately.

“This is a very delicate—“

“Sir, we just got him thawed, I can’t leave—“

“Stark’s been selling his belongings left and right,” Fury cut in, “He made Potts CEO of Stark Industries and Colonel Rhodes just flew out of Malibu with an Iron Man suit. Tell me, Coulson, when a man is dying and doesn’t want anyone to know—“

“He sells everything,” Coulson replied, “And he pushes everyone away.”

“You see my problem.”

“Yes, sir, I do,” Phil rubbed his eyes, a headache only Tony Stark could warrant growing steadily at his temples.

Fury sighed, “I know I promised I wouldn’t pull you away until he woke up.”

“It’s fine,” Phil risked one last glance at the monitors before pushing out of the room.

“Transport is waiting to take you home, then you are flying out immediately.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And Coulson?”

“Yes, sir?”

“There’s no need to take it out on Stark.”

Phil gritted his teeth as he marched down the hall, “Yes, sir."

 

+_+

 

“We’ve secured the perimeter, but I don’t think we should hold it too much longer.”

Stark looked up, then over his sunglasses, “Huh.”

Natasha didn’t smile.

“You’re f-f-fired,” Stark said, looking like his world had just been tipped sideways while he was trying valiantly to keep up the visage of normalcy.

“That’s not up to you,” Natasha replied smoothly, taking a seat.

“Tony,” Fury said, placing an arm around her, “I want you to meet Agent Romanov.”

“Hi,” Stark deadpanned, still processing.

“I’m a SHIELD shadow,” Natasha informed him, “Once we knew you were ill, I was tasked to you by Director Fury.”

“I suggest you apologize,” Stark informed her, leaning on his hand.

“You’ve been very busy,” Fury said, ignoring his comment, “You made your girl your CEO, you’re giving away all your stuff. You let your friend fly away with your suit! Now, if I didn’t know any better—“

“You don’t know better,” Stark snapped, “I didn’t give it to him, he took it.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Fury held up his hands, “He _took_ it? You’re Iron Man and he just _took_ it?”

Natasha couldn't fully keep back her smile.

Fury wasn’t done. Apparently he was enjoying himself, it wasn’t often he could be this heavy handed, “The little brother walked in there, kicked your ass and _took_ your suit?” Immediately he turned to Natasha, “Is that possible?”

“Well according to Mr. Stark’s database security guidelines, there are redundancies to prevent unauthorized usage,” Natasha informed him, watching Stark.

Fury turned back to the billionaire, who stared between them for a moment before smirking, obviously caught, “What do you want from me?”

“What do we want from you?” Fury repeated, “Nuh uh. What do _you_ want from _me_?”

Natasha got up to get the shot. 

“ _You_ have become a problem, a problem _I_ have to deal with. Contrary to your belief, you are _not_ the center of my universe—“

“Yeah I get it—“

“I have bigger problems than you in the southwest region to deal with! Hit him.”

Natasha stuck and plunged before Stark could pull away with a jerk.

“Oh— God,” Stark grunted as Natasha sat next to him, moving his head, “Are you gonna steal my kidney and sell it?”

Natasha released his chin, but he kept his head turned towards her, eyeing her wearily, “Could you please not do anything awful for five seconds? What did she just do to me?”

“What did we just do _for_ you,” Fury corrected calmly, “That’s lithium dioxide. It’s gonna take the edge off. We’re trying to get you back to work.”

“Give me a couple boxes of that. I’ll be right at rain,” Stark muttered.

“It’s not a cure, it just abates the symptoms,” Natasha said.

“Doesn’t look like it’s gonna be an easy fix,” Fury looked consideringly at Stark.

Stark gave Fury a sarcastic look. "Trust me, I know. I’m good at this stuff. I’ve been looking for a suitable replacement for palladium, I’ve tried every combination, every permutation of every known element.”

“Well I’m here to tell you you haven’t tried them all.”

 

+_+

 

Phil was not happy to see Stark again, even now that he had Natasha to share the misery with. She sent him an apologetic glance when she said “Good luck” and Phil got the feeling it was more directed at him than Stark.

“Please,” Stark said, with a sardonic glance to Coulson. “First thing I need a little bodywork. I’ll put in a little time at the lab. If we could get one of your goon squad down to The Coffee Bean, Cross Creek, for a Starbucks run, or something like that, that’d be nice.”

“I’m not here for that,” Phil said, keeping his tight smile in place, “I’ve been authorized by Director Fury to use any means necessary to keep you on premises. If you attempt to leave—“

“Right.”

“—or play any games, I will taze you and watch Supernanny while you drool into the carpet. ‘Kay?”

“I think I got it, yeah,” Stark nodded, looking uncomfortable.

Coulson slapped him on the arm, genially. “Enjoy you evening’s entertainment.”

 

+_+

 

Clint arrived at LAX to an obnoxious amount of sunshine. He hooked his bag over his shoulder and looked around for a black suit, but couldn’t find the _right_ black suit until he was halfway to baggage.

“Barton!”

Clint looked up and grinned at Phil striding toward him, “Coulson.”

“Glad you could make it,” Phil smiled, clapping him on the back. It felt odd. It took him a moment to realize he wanted to hug his handler.

“Everything alright?” Phil asked, studying Clint’s face.

Clint snapped out of it, shaking his head, “Yeah I’m good. Jet lag.”

Phil nodded understandingly, “How’s Wade?”

Clint sighed. He and Wade were better, but still on shaky ground. Apparently Wade and Peter weren’t doing much better, “‘Bout the same. Hey I heard about—“

“I’m trying not to think about it,” Phil cut in, looking pained, “The only thing stopping me from killing Stark is knowing I’ll be in New Mexico in a few days.”

Clint nudged his shoulder with a grin, “That’s the spirit.”

Phil snorted and pulled his phone out, “Natasha says Stark is headed back to his house.”

“Isn’t he under house arrest?” Clint asked, interestedly.

“Circumstances being what they are…” Phil shrugged, heading for the exit, Clint following close behind. Being near Phil again felt like a balm he didn’t realize he’d needed. Clint could feel himself loosening up just walking next to him and though the ride to Stark’s was silent, it was far from uncomfortable. At the mansion, Clint paused in the hall, eyes wide as he took in the mess of what had probably once been a nice living room. Though maybe it had been a patio or deck or something.

Clint whistled, looking at the stares when he heard the steady _thunk... thunk_ of a sledge hammer, “You know, I knew Stark was going crazy,” he finally said, looking at Phil, “But I thought everyone meant rich crazy. Like shaving his head and ranting about aliens crazy.”

“Stark likes to keep people guessing,” was Phil’s reply, typing out an email on his phone.

Clint snorted, taking another look around, “I think I like him.”

“Please don’t say that,” Phil said, looking up with a pained expression, “My job gets so much harder when you say that.”

Clint chuckled and went to check out the kitchen.

 

~~~

 

Four days later Stark was nearly finished with his particle accelerator. Phil felt that had to be some sort of record, but didn’t want to give Stark the dignity of looking into it.

“I heard you broke the perimeter,” Phil greeted, keeping his face stoic.

“Uh, yeah,” Stark replied absently, “That was like... three years ago, where you been?”

“I was doing some stuff,” Phil said, wandering further into the lab. Clint had made himself relatively scarce since his arrival, but he’d always shown up for meals and even snuck a sandwich or two to Stark apparently without him noticing.

Phil wasn’t sure why he was thinking about Clint instead of the massive meteor hunt he’d been coordinating the past few days. _That_ was what he’d been doing, not watching his asset’s comings and goings.

“Yeah, well, me too, and it worked,” there was a pause as Phil kept looking around, something catching his eye.

“Hey I’m playing for the home team, Coulson,” Stark continued, apparently irritated by silence, “you and all your Fabulous Furry Freak Brothers. Now are you gonna let me work or break my balls?”

Phil ignored him, his heart rate rising as he pulled out a large silver disk. _A prototype,_ Phil’s brain said, excitedly, _I’m holding history._

“What’s this doing here?” Phil asked, fighting hard to keep his face from turning gleeful. He was pretty sure he was frowning instead.

Stark turned, lighting up, “That’s it.”

Phil actually frowned now, curious.

“Bring that to me.”

“You know what this is?” Phil asked, he didn’t like the glee in Stark’s eye.

“It’s exactly what I need to make this work,” Stark took the prototype, looking it over, “Lift the coil.”

Confused, and a bit off guard, Phil complied, lifting the heavy metal as much as he could as Stark directed, “Go. Go. Put your knees into it. There you go. And… Drop it. Drop it.”

Phil let go, staring at the shield as Stark dropped a leveler on top of it all and muttered, “Perfectly level.”

When he looked up again, Phil wanted to punch him, “I’m busy. What do you want?”

“Nothing,” Phil bit out, reminding himself this was probably going to be the last time he’d have to deal with the insane billionaire, “Goodbye. I’ve been reassigned.”

Stark grunted so Phil continued, “Director Fury wants me in New Mexico.”

“Fantastic. Land of Enchantment,” Stark was definitely looking closed off.

“So I’m told,” Phil replied.

“Secret stuff?” he prompted.

“Something like that,” If Stark had turned on a TV in the last week he’d know why Phil was going to the middle of the desert. But, Phil assumed dying changed a man’s priorities.

Stark huffed a laugh, looking down.

“Good luck,” Phil said.

“Bye,” Stark grabbed Phil’s hand, giving it a solid shake, “Thanks.”

“We need you,” Phil reminded him.

“Yeah,” Stark let go, turning away, “More than you know.”

Phil couldn’t help himself, “Not that much.”

 

~~~

 

Wade had felt out of sorts ever since his dad left. He felt that was weird, considering he still hadn’t fully forgiven him for the implant (that he still had). But not having his dad around meant not constantly trying to fix their relationship. And not constantly trying to fix their relationship left Wade to deal with the rest of the fallout that was his life. He was positive Gwen would never speak to him again, even if he brought her coffee every day for the rest of her life (and he would. He totally would, and if he died before her? He’d set up a fucking tab at the closest coffee shop to her location and have it sent over). He was positive he was dead to Harry, but Wade couldn’t bring himself to be too upset about that. He’d still gone over to the Osborn Mansion to apologize in person (and been thrown out on his ass), so he felt he’d done all he could do. MJ had been the worst. He’d gone to her first, bringing with him a cup of the fancy mocha crunch thing she liked and stuttered through an apology before she stopped him, a hand on his elbow and said kindly, “I’ve been called worse.”

Wade had felt like shit after that. The smallest, most infinitesimal disgusting piece of trash the world had ever seen. He’d wanted to wrap her in a hug and promise into her hair he’d never ever hurt her again, and he’d kill anyone else who tried. But he knew she wouldn’t like that, they’d never really had that kind of relationship anyway. So he went to Flash, told him everything, and let him beat the ever loving shit out of him. Wade considered it a bonding experience and both had felt better afterward. Wade even offered to give Flash some pointers for future fights.

Peter though. Peter was impossible.

Everyone still heard about Spider-Man. Some even caught flashes of him swinging around the city. The Daily Bugle was calling him a menace, but no one took them seriously. Wade was having a hard time catching him. He’d wait up all night for Peter to come home, only to hear from May the next morning he’d slept on the couch, or over at Harry’s for a project. Even at school, Wade could only get a glimpse of him going around a corner or disappearing into a classroom.

“Whatever’s going on with you two,” May said one night as they stood side by side doing the dishes, “You need to fix it.”

“Yes ma’am,” Wade replied, taking the wet bowl from her soapy hands.

That’s how, a few days later, Wade found himself scuffing up gravel with his combat boot, in full Deadpool regalia, mask up and headphones in, waiting for Spider-Man to arrive and stop the convenience store robbery across the street. Not a moment later, Peter swung in, webbing the guy before he even made it to the street. Wade pulled out his headphones and down his mask, trotting across the road as Pete handed back the stolen money.

“Hey, Spidey!” Wade greeted with a wave, trying to force as much good cheer as he could, “Have fun taking down Mr. Mullet over there?”

Wade was nearly positive Peter was glaring at him.

“Have a good night, sir,” Pete said to the cashier, shoving past Wade on his way to the street.

“Hey! Whoa, wait up!” Wade followed him out, grabbing Pete’s arm to slow him down, “Dude, please let me talk.”

“All you do is talk,” Pete bit out, wrenching out of Wade’s grip.

“Okay, yeah, I know and mostly it’s out of my ass, but let me at least attempt to apologize,” Wade pleaded.

“You did apologize, remember?” Peter shot for the nearest building, but Wade swooped in front of him, grabbing the webbing and holding on tight.

“No, I fucked up,” Wade said evenly, “What I said wasn’t right. I was angry at the wrong people and I’m sorry.”

Pete cocked his head to the side, probably still glaring, “Who’d you apologize to first?”

“MJ,” Wade said immediately, “Then Gwen and Flash and Harry.”

“So I’m the last?”

“Technically you were the very first,” Wade nearly smacked himself for saying that.

“Hm,” was Peter’s only response, then he leaned forward just a little bit, and Wade couldn’t help moving closer too, heart pounding.

“I don’t forgive you.”

Peter webbed Wade in the face with his free hand, swept his feet out from under him and swung away. Wade laid on the ground, dazed and wondering when he’d let go of the web. 

 

~~~

 

“What just happened?” Clint asked stopping half way between the car and the gas station convenience store.

Phil shrugged, a self-satisfied half grin on his face, “I took care of it. Donut?”

Clint stared at the little packet, then his friend, before pushing past to investigate. Inside were two men, unconscious on the floor, two guns on the counter, and a very scared attendant on the phone. Clint took the whole scene in, only leaning through the doorway. He nodded at the attendant, her eyes big a saucers as she clutched the receiver, and ducked back out.

“This is what I get,” Clint said exasperatedly as he climbed back into the sedan and lounged his foot on the dash, “I leave New York and Tony Stark saves the world. I stay in the car and you take out a bunch of thugs with a bag of flour.”

“What happened in New York?” Phil asked, looking both ways before pulling onto the empty road.

“Nat told me while we were on the phone,” Clint replied bitterly, “Apparently, Vanko was working with Hammer and replicated Tony’s tech.”

“Tony?” Phil glanced over.

“Stark. Whatever,” Clint waved his hand dismissively, “I never get the good fights.”

Phil chuckled, patting Clint’s knee twice, “Don’t worry about it. Your time will come.”

“Yeah, not fast enough,” Clint mumbled.

 

~~~

 

Eight hours later it was midday outside Puente Antiguo. Clint and Phil climbed out of the car, Clint leaning against the hood arms crossed, sunglasses on, while Phil, suit jacket open, sunglasses reflecting the crater below him, stood close to the ridge. He watched the people mill around the object at the center before turning away and calling Fury, “Sir. We found it.”

“Looks like a hammer,” Clint muttered.

 

~~~

 

“This drink. I like it.”

“I know, it’s great right—“

“Another!”

There was a crash and Clint flinched, not from the sound, but from the mess the asshole had probably made. He watched the waitress scamper from around the counter with a broom and dust pan, but otherwise kept (mostly) to himself. Phil was out setting up a temporary base around the hammer/084, so Clint was taking in the sites. It had taken him five minutes to case the whole town, which felt a bit like cheating considering it was little more than two streets. He’d been about to leave the diner when the group had walked in: Two petite brunettes (Foster and Lewis, if he remembered their files right), an older collegiate type (Selvig), and a freaking god. Okay that was probably overstating it, but the guy was ridiculously ripped with flowing blond hair and a stride that commanded attention. So if not a god then a prince. A seriously douchey prince.

Now the odd couple (Foster and the mammoth) were bickering about proper diner etiquette when two more locals sidled up to the bar. Their conversation didn’t bother Clint (he smirked when they mentioned Sitwell’s team), but it piqued the foursome’s interest.

“'Scuse me,” said Foster, “Did you say there was a satellite crash?”

“Yeah,” Trucker Hat turned to reply.

“What did it look like, the satellite?” Selvig asked.

“Well, I don’t know anything about satellites,” Trucker Hat began slowly, “but it was heavy.”

The Mammoth paused. Clint motioned for another cup of coffee.

“I mean, nobody could lift it. They said it was radioactive. I had my hands all over it…”

The mammoth got up and grabbed the man’s shoulder, “Which way?”

“Oh, uh,” Trucker Hat looked intimidated, “Fifty miles west of here?”

“I wouldn’t waste my time,” Trucker Hat’s buddy called as Mammoth made his exit, “Looked like the whole Army was coming when we left.”

The other three at the table hastily got to their feet and Clint pulled out his cell, nodding thanks to the waitress.

“Coulson.”

“Foster and Co are leaving the diner. ETA two.”

“Not a problem, we’re almost done here.”

“The mammoth is splitting off from them, headed out of town.”

“The mammoth?”

“Blond, tall, built like a brick shit house. Dude’s huge, Coulson.”

“I’ve seen the videos. They’re here, I’ll call you back.”

Clint hung up and finished his coffee slowly.

 

~~~

 

That night, all hell broke loose.

The rain came on hard and fast, lightning interfering with most of the tech. Clint looked up when the alarm sounded.

“I need eyes up high with a gun.”

He jumped to his feet hesitating on the rifle before grabbing his bow and sprinting for the crane. He watched the figure run through the tunnels and awaited his orders.

“Barton?” Coulson’s voice crackled over the comm, “Talk to me.”

Clint drew, “You want me to slow him down, sir? Or are you sending in more guys for him to beat up?”

“I’ll let you know.”

Clint grinned, tracing the man’s form as he fought Agent John. They tore through the side of the tunnel, landing hard in the mud. Clint kept his arrow trained. It was the mammoth, Clint could see now. And he was beating the crap out of John.

“Better call it, Coulson,” Clint said, “‘cause I’m starting to root for this guy.”

Clint watched Phil step to the railing to get a better view. The man approached the hammer, his smile bright and deadly. Clint drew back one more inch, “Last chance, sir.”

“Wait. I want to see this.”

Clint paused, bow taut, and watched the man take the handle as if he’d done it a million times before, and pulled. Nothing happened. The man frowned. So did Clint. He pulled again. He wrapped it with both hands, muscles straining, teeth bared, knuckles white. He growled, he changed his grip, planted his feet so hard his boots sank inches into the mud.

Nothing.

Clint felt he was watching something intimate. Something broken. The man looked up at the sky and roared.

“Alright, show’s over,” Phil’s voice crackled over the comm, “Ground units, move in.”

Clint relaxed his bow, eyes still on the man as agents swarmed him.

 

~~~

 

“You’re soaked.”

Phil looked up from untying his shoes, smiling crookedly at Clint, “It’s just a suit.”

“It’s a nice suit,” Clint sat down heavily, bumping Phil’s knee.

Phil sat up right, “What’s wrong?”

“With me?” Clint asked, surprised, “Nothing.”

Phil looked Clint over, noting his clasped hands, his boots set firmly on the ground, and his eyes unable to meet Phil’s.

“ _Something’s_ bothering you.”

“Nothing’s _bothering_ me, Coulson,” Clint grinned reluctantly up at Phil, “I just wanted to see how you were.”

Phil paused, watching, “See how I was.”

“Yeah,” Clint seemed to tense, “I mean, first night and we already got someone in holding for B and E.”

“It’s a little more complicated than B and E,” Phil smiled. Clint smiled back, reclining on the bed. Phil got up, toeing off his shoes and pulling at his tie.

“You know, I was thinking,” Clint said, “What would have happened if that guy _had_ lifted the hammer?”

“Probably nothing good,” Phil said consideringly, shrugging out of his coat, “Maybe nothing at all.”

“Hm.”

Clint was quiet as Phil stripped his shirt, determinedly _not_ looking over his shoulder when he heard the distinct swish of tac pants on blankets.

“Here.”

A towel draped around Phil’s neck, scratchy and off white, “Thanks.”

“No problem,” Clint felt very close in that moment, but when Phil turned to grab a dry t-shirt he was leaning against the desk across the room, arms crossed and eyes distant.

“He seems a little messed up,” Clint went on, eyes becoming further unfocused.

Phil took the moment to change his slacks, “Coming in hot like that didn’t help his cause.”

“What do you think? Blue tie.”

Phil nodded absently forming the windsor, “Probably a merc. John said he sounded Australian, maybe South African.”

“John’s never been great with accents,” Clint considered with a shake of his head.

“No,” Phil accented, “But Patrice doesn’t leave the country much so it’s never been a big problem for his people,” Phil turned to Clint, sitting down to tie up his laces, “I’m not worried. I’ll get him talking.”

“Never doubted you, sir,” Clint smiled. Phil rose and moved to Clint before making a full stop in shock. He was about to kiss Clint. _He’d been about to kiss his asset_. Phil’s heart stopped for all of a millisecond, too long, and just enough for Clint to notice. Clint raised a brow, curiosity and something deeper in his eyes.

“I trust you’ll be there to watch?” Phil covered, hoping it was enough, “I could use your eyes. See if I miss anything.”

“Of course,” Clint straightened from his relaxed stance, “I wouldn’t leave you hanging.”

Phil smiled, “Thanks, Clint.”

Clint’s mouth opened as if he was about to say something but stopped himself. It was Phil’s turn to raise a brow, but Clint only huffed a laugh, shaking his head, “Yeah. No problem.”

Then he clasped Phil’s shoulder, gave it a little squeeze and lead the way out of the room.

 

~~~

 

Wade was sure he’d remember this night for the rest of his life.

It was like Ben Parker getting shot all over again, except he felt it rather than heard it. The man was aiming at Peter and only Wade pushing down on the barrel ( _stupid Wade stupid stupid stupid that’s an easy way to get shot_ ) changed the bullet’s trajectory enough to ricochet off the pavement. He felt the trigger pull, he felt the snap of the slide, he felt the jerk and the heat. All he could hear was ringing. Ringing and the incessant noise of _Keep Peter Safe, Keep Peter Alive_ like a mantra through his head. He didn’t remember the fight ending. He didn’t remember grabbing Peter and dragging him somewhere safer. He only realized he’d done it when he started pulling on Peter’s suit.

“Are you hurt?” he blurted, fighting to still his fingers and look into Peter’s eyes. At some point he’d ripped off his mask, he could feel the cooling night on his cheeks, but Pete’s was still on, hiding his face and that was not okay. Wade grabbed the edge and started jerking it up.

Peter smacked his hand away, “Dude, get off!”

“Let me see,” Wade growled.

“I’m fine!”

“Show me your fucking face, Parker!”

“There!” Peter ripped off his mask, his face pure anger, “Happy? I’m fine!”

Wade ignored him, running his hands over his neck and arms, checking for any damage only to be stopped again by Peter fucking shoving him away.

“Will you stop! I’m not fragile, Jesus, Wade!”

“Were you shot?” Wade asked urgently, taking a step closer, “Did he shoot you?”

“No! He shot _you_ , man!” Pete sounded strangled, but Wade brushed it off. It was a scratch. He’d cut himself worse shaving.

“Anything broken? Out of place?” Wade went on, reaching out, eyes scanning every inch of his best friend. Jesus Wade could have lost him.

“You weren’t going to lose me, Wade, I was doing fine.”

Wade snapped, “He had a gun, Pete!”

“I had it under control!”

“Getting shot at isn’t under control, dumbass!” Wade felt like he was breaking apart. He and Peter were nearly nose to nose, their faces red from fury and adrenaline, “You were _this fucking close_ to being gone forever!”

“ _I had it under cont—_ ”

Wade cut him off with a kiss, hands planted firmly on either side of Peter’s face, cupping his ears. Wade’s heart jolted hard in his chest, his breathing becoming erratic until, like light breaking through fog, Pete kissed back. He twisted, shoving Wade against the hard brick, pinning him for a single, beautiful, heartbreaking moment.

Then he was gone. Half way across the alley with a hand covering his mouth. He looked horrified and in that moment Wade wanted to do anything, _anything_ , to take that moment back. To never let it happen at all.

“Pete—“ Wade took a step forward, but Peter took a step back, one hand still covering his face, the knuckles nearly white he was clutching so hard, while the other was held stiffly as far away as it could, keeping Wade at a distance. Pete turned, arm dropping as the one over this mouth ran shakily through his hair. He paced away and Wade nearly choked, “Peter—“

“No,” Pete spun on his heel and stormed back into Wade’s space, his finger millimeters from Wade’s eye, “Don’t you ever— Don’t you _ever_ — do that again. Do you hear me?”

Wade nodded, his body going unbearably cold.

Pete dropped his finger, going back to covering his mouth. Without another word, he turned away, and he was gone.

Wade stood in the alley for hours afterward.

 

~~~

 

The city was blinding. His feet pounded the pavement, ears ringing, colors bright and everywhere. He ran until he found something familiar and ultimately not. A crossroads he’d walked a thousand times before that was nothing like the place he knew. His head was buzzing. His breathing ragged. He couldn’t concentrate.

“At ease, soldier!”

Soldier. He turned, eyes focusing on a single, solitary point. An eye patch.

“Look, I’m sorry about that little show back there, but,” the eye patch said, looking sincerely sorry in a way he knew the man wasn’t, “we thought it best to break it to you slowly.”

“Break what?” he asked. His heart wasn’t slowing. He knew. He knew before the man even spoke.

“You’ve been asleep, Cap. For almost 70 years.”

His heart thundered. It felt like the opposite of an asthma attack. He took a deep breath. He took another.

“You gonna be okay?”

“Yeah,” Steve said, a new feeling slowly welling up to swallow him, “Yeah I just…. I had a date."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter will be hella short. The one after that should be much more to your liking.
> 
> Cheers.


	19. The Deep Breath

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So as I said: super short.
> 
> Shout out to... you guessed it: [marleygoat](http://archiveofourown.org/users/marleygoat/pseuds/marleygoat) for her mad beta skills, and shout out to everyone still hanging out, catching this story whenever it pops up. Lord knows I don't know the meaning of the word consistency. Hope everyone is having an awesome holiday!

“Hey this is Wade. If you sincerely need my attention, text me.”

_beep_

“Hey, Wade, it’s your dad. I know you’re in class—“

“Dad?”

“Wade?”

“What’s wrong? Is everything okay?”

“Everything’s fine, buddy, I just wanted to leave you a message. I’ve been extended for another month.”

“Oh… okay, cool. Thanks for letting me know.”

“You okay?”

“Yeah. Just stressed with finals and stuff. It’s no bid deal. I’ve gotta get back to class.”

“Okay, I’ll talk to you later. Hey, Wade.”

“Yeah?”

“Thank you for picking up the phone.”

“No problem.”

“I love you, kiddo.”

“You too dad. Talk to you later.”

_click_

_If you are satisfied with your message, please press one. If you would like to change your message—_

_click_

 

+_+

 

Clint was shipped to Pegasus before the giant mechanical monster incident. When he heard about it, the only thing stopping him from commandeering a jeep and driving like a bat out of hell was Selvig, the cube, and the brief message Phil had left on his phone.

_Hey it’s me. We’re fine, the machine is out of commission, we’re bringing it to your facility. Don’t do anything stupid until I get there. Barton, I mean it._

Clint may have played it more than once just to keep himself from going crazy. When Phil finally did arrive, it was to very little fanfare. The machine was taken to a warehouse and Phil, slightly mussed and grumpy turned to Clint as if he hadn’t just shown up and said, “Coffee?”

“Sure,” Clint nodded, following his friend to the nearest dining hall. Phil took a seat at one of the tables, so Clint went to grab them coffee, coming back moments later with two cups. Phil thanked him with a smile and took a good long sip. Clint hid his smile with his mug.

When Phil looked like he was done communing with whatever deity he was thanking, Clint spoke, “Heard there was some weird weather in the desert a couple of days ago.”

Phil sighed, setting down his mug, “Do you know anything about Norse mythology?”

“Uh,” Clint wracked his brain, “That’s the one with the tree, right?”

Phil smiled, “Technically all of them have trees.”

“You know that I mean,” Clint dismissed with a wave, “The tree and the snake. Everything is cold and everything dies. Valhalla or whatever.”

“So close,” Phil teased.

Clint’s grin widened, “Tell me about Norse mythology then, smart ass.”

“The big guy,” Phil said, “The one you called the mammoth?”

“Yeah?”

“Thor, God of Thunder.”

Clint blinked, “No way.”

“And the others who joined him? Lady Sif and The Warriors Three.”

Clint narrowed his eyes, splaying both hands on the table, “Now you’re just fucking with me.”

“Swear to God.”

Clint huffed, moving closer and cradling his mug to his lips, “So gods exist. I’m not sure how I feel about that.”

“The world is getting stranger,” Phil said, taking another sip.

Clint nodded, letting the silence stretch.

“Okay, but how can you be the god of thunder?” Clint finally broke down and asked, “Isn’t thunder just a sound? Wouldn’t that be like, being the god of loud noises?”

Phil laughed, “God of church bells.”

“God of fog horns,” Clint replied.

“God of train breaks.”

“God of rock ’n roll.”

“Oof,” Phil shook his head, “Don’t tell Stark.”

Clint grinned, relaxing as the banter washed over him.

 

+_+

 

It didn’t last.

_All personnel, the evacuation order has been confirmed. Proceed to your designated vehicles for all systems evacuation. This is not a drill. Emergency personnel, proceed to your designated vehicles for an all systems evacuation._

Clint ignored the call, hooking his thumbs and staring down into the pit as he’d started calling it. The Tesseract sparked, sending off wave after wave of… it wasn’t heat, though Clint felt it should have been. It was energy. Like standing too close to a giant speaker. He could feel the waves almost vibrate him from his perch, sending a fizzy, electric charge through his body. It made him feel tired, maybe a little woozy.

It didn’t hurt, but it wasn’t comfortable. He wondered idly if this was what gamma radiation felt like.

He watched as Fury and Selvig talk shop for a bit before his comm clicked on, “Agent Barton, report.”

Clint got to his feet and headed down.

“I gave you this detail so you could keep a close eye on things,” Fury said.

“Well I see better from a distance,” Clint replied, shortly. Maybe he was feeling a little worse than he thought.

“Have you seen anything that might set this thing off?” He asked as they got closer to the glowing cube everyone was so worried about.

“No one’s come or gone,” Clint said, climbing up after Fury to get a better look, “And Selvig’s clean. No contacts, no IMs. If there’s any tampering, sir, it wasn’t at this end.”

Fury gave Clint a look, “At this end.”

Clint folded his arms, nodding, “Yeah, the cube is a doorway to the other end of space, right?”

Fury nodded.

Clint shrugged, “Doors open from both sides.”

The Tesseract spiked again, shaking the platform. The floor shook ominously, and Clint got the strong urge to head for higher ground. He and the director stepped away, eyeing the machine and the cube, but not going far. Something moved, the energy started to solidify, looking like a storm, spinning chaotically. The Tesseract became brighter and brighter. There was a blink, a blinding beam of light and the door was opening. Clint’s adrenaline spiked, his breathing slowed as the room became thick with power. For a moment, Clint could see the other side: black and intense until suddenly the portal, the door, the energy, exploded, rushing to find a way out and sending everyone back, hands covering their eyes.

When Clint dared to look, there was a man, huddled low, clutching something gold and glowing in his right hand. When he stood, Clint could see him better, pale and dark, shaken but not intimidated. Not weary.

Manic.

“Sir, please put down the spear,” Fury called.

The man looked down, as if he hadn’t realized what he’d been holding. He looked at Fury, and Clint knew what was going to happen a split second before the spear exploded, blasting energy where Fury had been only milliseconds before. Clint rolled off the director as bullets started flying. He grabbed his side arm and started shooting, but nothing worked, nothing stopped him.

Clint rolled out of the way of another energy blast, stunned at the impact he couldn’t quite shake. He got to his feet, but the man was there, his grip strong and cold as he held Clint’s arm and twisted. Clint grunted, baring his teeth and about to throw a punch when the man spoke.

“You have heart.”

He hesitated, and it was all the time the man needed. The spear tapped him gently on the chest. Clint watched glowing blue melt from the stone to his sternum and groaned at the cold, freezing, biting, spreading like liquid fire through every bit of him. Burning him. Breaking him. Opening him.

**You are mine now.**

Clint stood back, arms easy, and put away his gun.

“Please don’t.”

The voice was like silk, seeping through his brain, his arms, his legs. Clint stayed still.

“I still need that.”

“This doesn’t have to get messier,” Fury’s voice felt jarring in comparison. Clint felt his stomach clench.

**Identified: Target, Director Nicholas Fury. Neutralize Target.**

“Of course is does.”

**Identified: Loki, Ruler of the Nine Realms. Protect at all cost.**

“I’ve come too far for anything else.”

Fury turned, fully facing the room and his opponent.

**Target identified. Neutralize Target.**

“I am Loki, of Asgard, and I am burdened with glorious purpose.”

“Loki,” Selvig’s voice was gravel after the soft velvet enveloping Clint, “brother of Thor.”

“We have no quarrel with your people,” Fury broke in, holding up a hand.

“In ant has no quarrel with a boot.”

**Neutralize Target.**

“Are you planning to step on us?” Fury asked, low and dangerous.

“I come with glad tidings,” Loki stepped forward, “Of a world made free.”

“Free from what?”

“Freedom.”

Clint felt his whole body shudder.

“Freedom is life’s great lie,” Loki continued, “Once you accept that, in your heart,” he turned, pressing the spear to Selvig’s chest, “you will know peace.” 

“Yeah you say “peace”, I kinda think you mean the other thing,” Fury replied.

_**Neutralize Target.** _

_Negative. Larger threat identified._

“Sir, Director Fury is stalling,” Clint made his way to Loki’s side, “This place is about to blow and drop a hundred feet of rock on us. He means to bury us.”

“Like the pharaohs of old,” Fury agreed.

“He’s right,” Selvig called from the console, “The portal is collapsing in on itself. We’ve got maybe two minutes before this goes critical.”

“Well then.”

Clint drew and shot.

**Headshots. Neutralize Target.**

_Negative. Chest shots. Target Neutralized._

**Confirm Kill.**

_I don't miss._

Fury grunted, dropping the case as he fell. Clint didn’t even look as he walked by, just grabbed the case and kept striding.

 

+_+

 

Phil’s heart skipped a beat when the floor shuddered. The weaponry they’d been moving fell, but as the agents went to retrieve it Phil stopped them, “Okay, let’s go. Nonono— leave it, leave it! Go!”

He grabbed one man by the bicep and all but shoved him for the door. They climbed into the last transport.

“We’re clear upstairs, sir,” Phil called into his radio, “You need to go.”

He nodded and someone banged on the back wall, setting the truck tearing out of the complex. The truck heaved once as the ground buckled, sending Phil scrambling for something to hold. Then the world collapsed. He watched in distant horror as the ground fell away, eating up the road much faster than they were moving. Phil felt his heart in his throat, saw them falling into the chasm, down, down, down…

The crater stopped and the truck kept moving. Phil inhaled, feeling light headed at the near miss until they pulled over almost a mile out of range.

Coulson took another deep breath and held up his radio, “Director?”

There was silence.

He tried again, “Director Fury, do you copy?”

“The Tesseract is with a hostile force,” the radio crackled, “I have men down. Hill?”

“A lot of men still under,” she grunted through the line, “I don’t know how many survivors.”

“Sound a general call,” Fury directed, “I want every living soul not working rescue looking for that briefcase.”

“Roger that,” Hill responded.

“Coulson, get back to base. This is a Level Seven.” Fury’s voice was deadly as he spoke, “As of right now, we are at war."

Phil stilled, heart racing for a whole new reason. He wondered where Clint was, refusing to believe he was buried.

“What do we do?” Phil asked.

There was no answer. That was probably answer enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: Avengers


	20. The Follow Through

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BETA BETA BETA BETA ROCKIN EVERYWHERE! [Marleygoat](http://archiveofourown.org/users/marleygoat/pseuds/marleygoat) did the thing and I am pleased. Thanks all for hanging out, it's really swell of you to be so awesome, I had coffee and probably should have eaten lunch... oh, three hours ago so I'm currently a shivering shaking mess of cool and I'm gonna go get tacos because no one hates tacos amirite?
> 
> Yes, anyway, *spiritfingers* here's the chapter.

_1, 2, 3, 4, 1, 2, 3, 4, 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7._

Phil’s head felt numb, his throat was too dry, too cold to even swallow. He closed his eyes and gripped the bench harder.

_1, 2, 3, 4, 1, 2, 3, 4, 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7._

He could feel himself start to shake and fought it.

_1, 2, 3, 4, 1, 2, 3, 4, 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7._

He focused on the room around him. The slightly musty air. The smell of generic shampoo, the steady, barely there hum of far off engines. He could feel the bite of the bench where his fingers gripped the galvanized metal hard enough to leave marks. He could feel his eyes burning and refused to think why. He kept everything very basic, very focused. He took a long steady breath again.

_1, 2, 3, 4… 1, 2, 3, 4… 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7._

He opened his eyes.

 _My name is Phil Coulson. I am an agent of SHIELD (1, 2, 3, 4). The base where I was stationed was attacked (1, 2, 3, 4). My best friend…_ His throat clicked. The burn intensified, but Phil stubbornly blinked through it. _Clint Barton is my best friend (1, 2, 3, 4). My best friend is alive (1, 2, 3, 4). I have to call Natasha._

_1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7._

The breath escaped him with a whoosh, leaving him feeling stranded and hollow. He got to his feet, making his way to the long row of sinks to splash water on his face. He didn’t look in the mirror, instead managing everything by feel and went back to his locker. He didn’t look at the inner door when he pulled it open. He didn’t look at the coat that was definitely not his hanging on the right hook. His eyes didn’t even stray to the boots. He placed his sunglasses and secondary wallet on the high shelf, switched his good watch for his not so good watch, and grabbed his backup cell, setting his usual one in it’s place. He closed the door and made his way to the deck, compartmentalizing everything into groups of right now and later.

Natasha was right now. Clint was later.

“Give me a direct line to Agent Romanoff,” Phil ordered an agent at a console. Edwards, Phil thought his name was.

“Agent Romanoff is mid-mission, sir,” Edwards replied, scrolling through the present information.

“That’s fine,” Phil leaned over his shoulder, scrutinizing the mark’s known associates. He recognized one of Patrice’s boys and tapped on the screen, “Get me his number."

Edwards nodded, pulling up the agent’s file and Phil started typing.

 _“Da?”_ the voice was grainy and distant.

“Give the phone to your boss,” Phil ordered. There was a pause, then a shuffle.

 _“Vy budget slush’—“_

“You’re at 114 Silensky Plaza, third floor,” Phil cut the man off, “We have an F-22 exactly eight miles out.” Edwards’ eyes widened and he turned back to his terminal, typing furiously, "Put the woman on the phone, or I will blow up the block before you can make the lobby.”

“Sir?” Edwards hesitated, “There are no SHIELD bombers in that area.”

Coulson shrugged, covering the receiver, “I know, I just thought it sounded good.”

The young agent’s face broke into an “O” of understanding as Phil waited for the shuffling on the other end of the line to stop, “We need you to come in.”

“Are you kidding? I’m working,” Natasha sounded both incredulous and put out. She must be having fun.

“This takes precedence,” Phil insisted, stepping away from Edwards to get some semblance of privacy on the crowded deck.

“I’m in the middle of an interrogation. This moron is giving me everything,” someone spoke in the background and Natasha must have made a face, because it was a moment more before she said succinctly, “Look, you can’t pull me out of this right now—“

“Natasha,” Phil lowered his voice, shifting slightly to make sure no one was watching before turning away, “Barton’s been compromised.”

His voice wavered, and he hated himself for it. There was silence for one beat. Two.

“Let me put you on hold.”

Phil waited patiently, listening to the grunts and cries on the other end of the line, absently wondering if he’d just heard the breaking of wood or bone. They sounded eerily similar. There was a clatter as the phone was dropped and a moment of silence before the scrape of it being picked back up.

“So where is Barton now,” she asked conversationally.

“We don’t know."

“But he’s alive.”

“We think so,” Phil couldn’t bring himself to say more, he could already feel the knot in his throat, “I’ll brief you on everything when you get back. But first we need you to talk to the big guy.”

“Coulson, you know that Stark trusts me about as far as he can throw me,” Natasha purred.

“Oh, I’ve got Stark,” he corrected, “You get the big guy.”

There was a pause, a curse, then a dial tone. Phil hung up as well and made his way to the flight deck, preparing for his next great hurdle.

Stark now. Clint later.

 

+_+

 

Natasha waited for the girl to make it through the window before stepping out.

“You should’ve got got paid up front, Banner,” the doctor mumbled to himself.

Natasha spoke up, keeping her voice smooth, “You know, for a man who’s supposed to be avoiding stress, you picked a hell of a place to settle.”

She smiled kindly ( _she could do this, she could do this_ ), trying to stay open even as every part of her screamed to run. 

Banner eyed her warily, setting down his bag, “Avoiding stress isn’t the secret.”

“Then what is it? Yoga?” she kept her tone interested ( _body language open, movements slow, don’t bother it, it won’t bother you_ ). Banner snorted, rubbing his hands. He was smaller than she pictured. Thinner, his clothes hanging from him instead of sitting properly. He hunched, he shuffled, and his eyes never stopped moving. The urge to run intensified.

“You brought me to the edge of the city. Smart,” he replied, peaking out the window, “I assume the whole place is surrounded.”

“Just you and me,” Natasha answered, slipping off her shawl. She felt more than heard the two beeps meaning her back up was in position. She tried not to relax.

“And your actress buddy?” Banner asked, motioning to the window, “Is she a spy, too? They start that young?”

“I did,” Natasha replied honestly.

“Who are you?”

“Natasha Romanoff,” she ended it on an up note, coming off as young and hopefully less threatening. 

Apparently it didn’t work, “Are you here to kill me, Ms. Romanoff? Because that’s not going to work out for everyone.”

“No, no,” she took a step forward, staying open, “of course not. I’m here on behalf of SHIELD."

Banner looked down and away, still rubbing his hands, “SHIELD… How’d they find me?”

“We never lost you, Doctor. We’ve kept our distance. Even helped keep some other interested parties off your scent.”

“Why?”

“Nick Fury seems to trust you,” she let her smile turn coy, then business like, “But now we need you to come in.”

Banner nodded, understandingly, “What if I say no?”

Natasha could help her smile getting a little bigger, “I’ll persuade you.”

“And what if the… other guy says no?”

“You’ve been more than a year without an incident,” she pointed out ( _stay calm, stay calm_ ), “I don’t think you want to break that streak.”

She moved to grab her phone as Banner spoke, “Well, I don’t all the time get what I want.”

“Doctor, we’re facing a potential global catastrophe.”

Banner laughed, “Well, those I _actively_ try to avoid.”

“This,” Natasha slid her phone across the table, taking a seat, "is the Tesseract. It has the potential energy to wipe out the planet.”

Banner pulled out his glasses and picked up the phone, reading, his eyes becoming sharp with interest, “What does Fury want me to do, swallow it?”

“He wants you to find it,” she leaned forward, “It's been taken.”

Banner looked up, his face a mask of mild interest.

“It emits a gamma signature that’s too weak for us to trace,” she met his eyes, forcing him to keep contact, “There’s no one that knows gamma radiation like you do. If there was, that’s where I’d be.”

Banner removed his glasses, still holding the phone, “So Fury isn’t after the monster?”

“Not that he’s told me,” she replied, keeping her hands loose in her lap, leaning back, giving him the advantage.

“And he tells you everything?” Banner said sarcastically, dropping the phone back on the table.

Natasha leaned forward to take it, “Talk to Fury. He needs you on this.”

“He needs me in a cage?”

“No one’s going to put you in a—“

“ _Stop lying to me!_ ”

The bang was so loud and so sudden, Natasha was on her feet, gun in hand before she fully recognized her actions. Her heart was racing, all semblance of calm gone, but Banner’s hands were up. He looked small again, his eyes placating and kind as he said, “I’m sorry. That was mean. I just wanted to see what you’d do.”

Natasha was silent, staring at Banner as her backup all but screamed in her ear. Her heart thundered in her chest her mind chanting _ar atsarmoebs, ar atsarmoebs! Don’t run, don’t run!_

 _Ne zapuskayte,_ a calm, quiet voice ordered in the back of her mind, muting her own frantic thoughts, _Don’t run._

“Why don’t we do this the easy way where you don’t use that and the other guy doesn’t make a mess. Okay?” Banner smiled, somehow making it self-depreciating and sympathetic at the same time, “Netasha?” 

Natasha felt herself shaking, small tremors running parallel with her heart beat ( _don’t run_ ). She hesitated for all of a second before calling it.

“Stand down,” she said, pressing her comm to override everyone else’s frantic chatter. “We’re good here.”

Banner’s smile grew shrewdly knowing, “Just you and me.”

Natasha let her hand drop, her eyes never leaving Banner’s form.

 

+_+

 

The plane was waiting for Steve when he arrived, prepped and ready. He smiled at the man in the suit who introduced himself as Agent Coulson and shook his hand before taking a seat. While they took off, Steve pulled out the "file" Fury had left with him, reading over everything for the fourth or fifth time, though now he probably could recite it by heart.

“We’re about 40 out from home base, sir,” the Pilot called back.

Coulson, who’d been sitting at the radar, took off his headset to stand so Steve spoke up, still looking over the report, tapping the odd screen to change pages, “So this Dr. Banner was trying to replicate the serum they used on me?”

“A lot of people were,” Coulson replied, holding the bar above his head to keep steady, “You were the world’s first superhero. Banner thought gamma radiation might hold the key to unlocking Erskine’s original formula.”

“Didn’t really go his way, did it?” Steve said, watching the video attached to the doctor’s file.

“Not so much,” Coulson agreed, “When he’s not that thing, though, the guy’s like a Stephen Hawking.”

Steve looked up, confused.

“He’s like a…” Coulson shrugged, hand flicking by his side as he shifted, “smart… person.”

Steve looked back at the tablet, adding Stephen Hawking to his mental list of things to look up. 

“I gotta say,” Coulson continued after a moment’s hesitation, “It’s an honor to meet you. Officially.”

Steve smiled at the sentiment as Coulson continued, “I’ve sort of met you. I mean, I watched you while you were sleeping.”

Steve felt his smile falter and looked away, positive the agent didn’t mean it the way it sounded.

“I mean I was— I was present,” Coulson tried again, “While you were—“ Steve stood, too embarrassed to sit, and moved to at least pretend to take a look outside, “—unconscious... from the... ice—“ Coulson followed him, mirroring Steve’s stance, “You know, it’s really it’s just a huge honor to have you on board this…” finally he cut himself off.

“I hope I’m the man for the job,” Steve said.

“Oh, you are,” Coulson replied immediately, “Absolutely. Uh, we made some modifications to the uniform. I had a little…” and here he did the odd head weave again, "design input.”

“The uniform?” Steve asked, “Aren’t the stars and stripes a little… old-fashioned?"

Something changed, Coulson seemed to loosen, but distance himself somehow, “With everything that’s happening,” he said, “ and the things that are about to come to light, people might just need a little old-fashioned."

Steve wasn’t convinced, but he stayed silent.

 

+_+

 

Wade bought headphones. Big black noise cancelers so he didn’t have to hear anything for hours. He thought about all those people, at school, at SHIELD, who said he could never shut up and laughed. Wade could shut up. Rarely did he want to. And it had been even longer since he’d wanted to shut the world out.

But it was a beautiful day, and Wade had a big plan to Do Nothing all by himself. He plugged in his headphones, turned up the music and walked. He walked to the subway and took a random train to the city. He got off on a random stop and took the stairs to street level, right outside Stark Tower. He got a coffee, more for something to carry than something to drink, and walked. He didn’t rush. Didn’t make eye contact, didn’t do much of anything beyond putting one foot in front of the other.

He wandered through the Flatiron District, the West Village to Hudson Square, then cut over to Little Italy. When he got hungry, he stopped at a truck for some taquitos that only looked mildly questionable and made his way back up to Midtown. And, because he was a masochist maybe, he watched Spider-Man chase a car up Madison Avenue. Because he was less of a masochist maybe, he took the first left he could and walked 5th to Central Park. 

He decided against the zoo and walked a few paths until he felt good and lost, then turned around and made his way directly to the great lawn. He didn’t stay, just looked over the crowded green in the slowly setting sun for a moment and turned toward the metro. He took the train back to the Parkers and that was it.

He saw no one, he did nothing, and he was happy.

Really.

 

+_+

 

Phil had calmed down by the time they made it to the Helicarrier. He still felt like an idiot for he stuttering, babbling mess he’d been, but felt justified when he introduced Natasha, "Agent Romanoff, Captain Rogers."

“Ma’am,” the captain greeted.

“Hi,” Natasha barely gave him a once over before turning to Phil, "They need you on the bridge, they’re starting the face-trace."

Phil left them to it, "See you there.”

He immediately went to the deck, hardly noticing the hurried movement around him before finding Sitwell at a station. He grabbed an extra comm and asked, “What have we got?”

“A whole bunch of bupkis,” Sitwell sounded slightly less than frustrated, “How’s cap?”

“Fine,” Phil replied. Jasper turned to him, brow raised.

“Tall,” Phil relented, “How about we talk about missing persons instead of childhood heroes, huh Jas?”

Sitwell snorted, but got back to work. The floor shivered and calls for flight prep went up and down the stations. Fury stood over everyone, watching and waiting. For what Phil didn’t know, and didn’t want to ask.

Moments after Steve Rogers, Bruce Banner and Natasha entered the deck they were off, and Phil’s job of finding five people in billions became that much harder.

“Gentlemen,” Fury greeted. Captain Rogers pulled out a ten and handed it to Fury before passing him by. Phil wondered what that was about.

“Doctor, thank you for coming.”

“Thanks for asking nicely.”

Phil glanced at Natasha who gave him the barest of smiles.

“So, uh, how long am I staying?” Banner continued.

“Once we get our hands on the Tesseract,” Fury replied diplomatically, “You’re in the wind."

Banner seemed to relax, “Where are you with that?”

Fury motioned to Phil who stepped forward, crossing his arms as he spoke, “We’re sweeping every wirelessly accessible camera on the planet. Cell phones, laptops… if it’s connected to a satellite, it’s eyes and ears for us,” he didn’t mention Clint would know that’s what they’d do, that it wouldn’t be enough.

Natasha said it for him, “That’s still not gonna find them in time.”

“You’ll have to narrow your field,” Banner told them, turning to Fury, “How many spectrometers do you have access to?”

“How many are there?” Fury returned.

“Call every lab you know. Tell them to put the spectrometers on the roof and calibrate them for gamma rays. I’ll rough out a tracking algorithm, basic cluster recognition. At least we can rule out a few places.”

Fury nodded, thinking.

“You have somewhere for me to work?” Banner asked.

“Agent Romanoff,” Fury turned, “could you show Dr. Banner to his laboratory, please?”

Natasha automatically got to her feet, leading the way, “You’re gonna love it, Doc. We got all the toys.”

Phil turned back to the bank of computers, ignoring everyone and thing around him.

“You holding up, Cheese?” Fury asked, just behind him.

Phil turned, but just to nod, “We’ve got sweeps going out across the world.”

“We’ll find him.”

“We better.”

Fury gave him a look, “You need a minute?”

“No,” Phil said immediately.

Fury stayed silent for a moment, “Cap getting to you?”

Phil would bless him for the easy out if he didn’t feel like it was jumping from the pot to the fire.

“Don’t forget to ask him about the cards,” Fury chuckled, walking away.

Phil bit his lip so he wouldn't yell at his boss, Jasper turned immediately, but as soon as Phil saw his face he held up a hand, his face going stoney, “Not a word.”

Jasper smartly turned back to his station.

 

+_+

 

Clint knew what he had to do. He’d never seen clearer in his life. He felt…

He understood his next steps as if he was being walked through them by hand. There was nothing to cut through. He didn’t have to think like someone else to get his answers because everyone was thinking like him. He knew his mission.

 **Stabilize the Tesseract.**

It was short and sweet, exactly to the point.

**Stabilize the Tesseract. Protect Loki. Bring world order.**

_Not world peace._

His heart beat was steady. His mind kept coming back to that. Somehow it felt wrong.

“What has it shown you, Agent Barton?”

**Stabilize the Tesseract.**

“My next target.”

Selvig’s laugh was just as jarring as it had been in the compound, “Stick in the mud. He’s got no soul.”

Clint turned to him.

_I want to kill him._

**Not yet.**

“No wonder you chose this—this tomb to work in,” he went on.

“Well the Radisson doesn’t have three levels of lead lined flooring between SHIELD and that cube,” Clint snapped.

Selvig shrugged dismissively and turned away.

“I see why Fury chose you to guard it,” Loki commented.

Clint turned back to him, “You’re going to have to contend with him, sir. As long as he’s in the air, I can’t pin him down,” Because Fury would immediately take to the skies just as surely as Clint would go to ground, fuck his call name, “And he’ll be putting together a team.”

Loki’s face darkened as they walked, “Are they a threat?”

Clint analyzed the work around him, “To each other, more than likely. But if Fury can get them on track, and he might,” _He would need something big, something colossal, something even he may not have seen coming_ , “they could throw some noise our way.”

“You admire Fury.”

“He’s got a clear line of sight,” Clint conceded.

“Is that why you failed to kill him?”

**You cannot lie to yourself, Agent Barton.**

Clint paused. His heart stayed steady, “It might be. I was disoriented. And I’m not at my best with a gun.”

_It’s true. It’s all true._

Loki hesitated before him, pausing just long enough to collect his thoughts and turn, “I want to know everything you can tell me about this team of his."

_Agent Natasha Romanoff, Captain Steve Rogers, Dr. Bruce Banner, Tony Stark, Agent Phil Coulson as handler._

Clint nodded.

“I would… test… their mettle,” Loki went on, “I am weary of scuttling in shadow. I mean to rule this world. Not burrow in it.”

“It’s a risk,” Clint commented.

Loki smiled, wide and cold, “Oh, yes.”

Clint’s mind worked with this new information, reassembling his plans, “If you’re set on making yourself known… could be useful.”

“Tell me what you need.”

Clint went for his bow, “I need a distraction. And an eyeball.”

 

+_+

 

Natasha caught him going back to the deck. They walked companionably for a few steps before she pulled him aside and said, “Tell me what happened.”

Phil felt his throat constrict. All his hard won composure crack ever so slightly. He told her about the attack, about Clint shooting Fury and everything after. Natasha’s eyes went from determined to wide to closed faster than Phil could blink.

“Where’s your head?” she asked.

“I’m fine,” he replied.

“Have you contacted Wade?”

Phil couldn’t help his small smile, “Level 7 remember?”

Natasha huffed, about as close as she ever got to exasperation, “Did you engage his tracker?”

“Remote was demolished in the crater.”

“What about Clint’s?”

“He cut his out,” Phil felt a wave of… something pass through him. Nausea. Or Anger, “Either that or he’s somewhere the transmitters can’t reach.”

Natasha nodded, “I’ll talk to him.”

Phil’s heart stopped, “Him?”

 

+_+

 

Stark was insufferable. Brilliant, pompous, and every single thing Howard wasn’t.

“Are you nuts?”

“Jury’s out.”

Steve wanted to kill him.

“You really have got a lid on it, haven’t you?” Stark continued as if he hadn’t been interrupted, “What’s your secret? Mellow jazz, bongo drums, huge bag of weed?”

“Is everything a joke to you?” Steve snapped.

“Funny things are,” Stark replied.

“Threatening the safety of everyone on this ship isn’t funny. No offense, Doc.”

“No, it’s alright,” Banner smiled, looking distractedly at a screen, “I wouldn’t have come aboard if I couldn’t handle pointy things.”

“You’re tip-toeing, big man,” Stark told him, “You need to strut.”

“And you need to focus on the problem, Mr. Stark.”

“Do you think I’m not?”

Steve gritted his teeth.

“Why did Fury call us in? Why now? Why not before?” Stark pulled a silver bag out of somewhere as he paced the room, “What isn’t he telling us? I can’t do the equation unless I have all the variables.”

Something that had been stiff in Steve’s stomach loosened, “You think Fury’s hiding something?”

Stark looked at him like he was mental, “He’s a spy. Captain, he’s _the_ spy. His secrets have secrets. It’s bugging him too, isn’t it?”

They both looked at Banner, shook his head, barely making eye contact, “I just want to finish my work here, and—”

“Doctor?” Steve asked.

Banner hesitated again, “A warm light for all mankind. Loki’s jab at Fury about the cube.”

“I heard it,” Steve confirmed, shifting his stance.

“Well I think that was meant for you,” Banner pointed at Stark. As if winning a prize, Stark held the small bag out to Banner, who took a few blueberries (Steve could smell them now) before continuing, “Even if Barton didn’t tell Loki about the tower, it was still all over the news.”

“The Stark Tower?” Steve asked, “That big, ugly—“

Stark turned sharply to Steve, eyes chilling as Steve pressed on, “—building in New York?”

“It’s powered by an arc reactor, self-sustaining energy source,” Banner explained, “That building will run itself for, what, a year?”

Stark shrugged, “It’s just the prototype,” he turned to Steve, looking far less than humble, “I’m kind of the only name in clean energy right now. That’s what he’s getting at.”

Steve ignored him for Banner, “So why didn’t SHIELD bring him in on the Tesseract project? What are they doing in the energy business in the first place?”

“I should probably look into that once my decryption program finishes breaking into all of SHIELD’s secure files,” Stark acknowledged breezily. 

“I’m sorry did you say—“

“JARVIS has been running it since I hit the bridge,” Stark informed him, “In a few hours, I’ll know every dirty secret SHIELD has ever tried to hide. Blueberry?”

“Yet you’re confused about why they didn’t want you around,” Steve bit out, completely ignoring the bag held out to him.

“An intelligence organization that _fears_ intelligence? Historically, not awesome.”

“I think Loki’s trying to wind us up,” Steve said, “This is a man who means to start a war and if we don’t stay focused, he’ll succeed,” he looked between Banner and Stark, “We have orders. We should follow them.”

“Following’s not really my style,” Stark quipped.

Steve gave him a condescending smile, “And you’re all about style, aren’t you?”

Stark’s brow furrowed, “Out of the people in this room, which one is, A, wearing a spangly outfit and, B, not of use?”

Banner added, “Steve, tell me none of this smells funky to you.”

Steve looked from one genius to the other, his teeth gritting, “Just find the cube.”

He left without another word, but hesitated when the door closed behind him. He looked left, toward the deck, toward Fury, then right, further into the ship, where he hadn’t yet been. He thought about it a moment more, then followed his gut. He turned right.

 

+_+

 

Natasha took a deep breath and stepped silently to the glass. She could almost feel a prickle when Loki’s attention shifted to her.

“There’s not many people who can sneak up on me,” he said, turning .

Natasha didn’t move, “But you figured I’d come.”

“After.”

She tilted her head.

“After whatever tortures Fury can concoct, you would appear as a friend, and a balm. And I would cooperate.”

She wanted to laugh at him, “I want to know what you’ve done to Agent Barton.”

“I would say I’ve expanded his mind,” he reasoned.

“And once you’ve won,” she approached the cage slowly, “once you’re king of the mountain, what happens to his mind?”

Loki’s smile changed ever so slightly, “Oh,” he said, “Is this love, Agent Romanoff?”

She thought of the first time she’d seen Wade, thin and pale, curled around a small ratty bear as he slept, she thought about Coulson, looking nearly pale with worry even as he hid it all behind a straight tie and a less than kind smile, she thought about Clint, “Love is for children. I owe him a debt.”

Loki backed away to the far wall, holding his palms out, “Tell me.”

Natasha stilled, thinking, then moved as well, emulating his fluidity with small jerks and discomforts, “Before I worked for SHIELD I, uh…” she took a seat in a nearby chair, just to the side, “Well, I made a name for myself. I have a very specific skill set. I didn’t care who I used it for, or on.I got on SHIELD’s radar in a bad way. Agent Barton was sent to kill me,” ( _a flash in the window, so small it could only be a reflection. “Ne volnuytes’, vy ne sdelali.”_ ) she looked to Loki, “He made a different call.”

“And what would you do if I vow to spare him?”

“Not let you out.”

“Ah no, but I like this,” his smile became predatory, catching on, “Your world in the balance, and you bargain for one man.”

“Regimes fall every day,” she told him, “I tend not to weep over that, I’m Russian. Or I was.”

And what are you now?” he asked.

Natasha stood smoothly, “It’s really not that complicated.I got red in my ledger, I’d like to wipe it out.”

“Can you?” he asked, “Can you wipe out that much red? Dreykov’s daughter,” Natasha felt her stomach drop, “Sao Paulo, the hospital fire?”

She couldn’t breath, she stayed still, her arms crossed and watched, trying not to move. Trying not to run. _Ne rabotayut._

Loki wasn’t done, “Barton told me everything,” he said, pacing forward, “Your ledger isn't dripping. It’s gushing red and you think saving a man no more virtuous than yourself will change anything?”

_Clint holding Wade to his chest as they were introduced. Clint laughing after she reset his dislocated shoulder. Wade making faces across a broken table and too much Chinese food. Clint telling her everything and she giving him nothing in return._

“This is the basest sentimentality. This is a child at prayer. Pathetic!” he spat, “You lie and kill in the service of liars and killers. You pretend to be separate, to have your own code, something that makes up for the horrors. But they are part of you. And they will never go away.”

He banged hard on the glass, making Natasha startle.

“I won’t touch Barton,” he growled, “not until I make him kill you. Slowly, intimately, in every way he knows you fear,” horror invaded Natasha, long cloying tendrils of cold licking into her heart. She tried to fight it from her face, but she could see it, she knew what would happen and how. Loki’s eyes bore into her very soul, "And then he’ll wake just long enough,” he continued, "to see his good work and when he screams, I’ll split his skull.”

Natasha had to turn, had to gather herself, had to stop shaking.

“This is my bargain, you mewling quim.”

Natasha felt her breath rattle in her throat, her eyes dry, she whispered, “You’re a monster.”

Loki chuckled, “Oh no. You brought the monster.”

_Gotcha._

Natasha straightened, turning back to the glass, “So,” she said, “Banner. That’s your play.”

Loki’s face contorted open with surprise and confusion, “What?”

But Natasha was already turning away, pressing her comm, “Loki means to unleash the Hulk. Keep Banner in the lab. I’m on my way. Send Thor as well.”

Finally at the door, she stopped, turning to Loki, because she was a professional, “Thank you for your cooperation.”

And she was gone.

 

+_+

 

The bridge was chaos. Sirens pounded the air as agents ran for ulterior stations, trying to figure out what went wrong.

Phil shouted orders listening to Hill’s SITREP until, “Coulson, initiate defensive lockdown in the detention section then get to the armory.”

He didn’t even answer, halfway to the armory already. He grabbed something, anything, and it happened to be on of the Phase 2 guns. If it was in the armory, there was a 80% chance it wouldn’t explode when he fired it, which was good enough of him. He was going up against a god. Ho hoped it was enough.

 

+_+

 

Natasha pulled, fighting down a cry of pain when her foot didn’t come loose. She turned to Banner, heart hammering, “Doctor—“

Banner groaned, burying his head in the metal grating.

“Bruce,” she tried again, “You gotta fight it, This is just what Loki wants.”

He was breathing, harsh and static, crawling to his forearms.

“We’re going to be okay, listen to me.”

“Are you hurt?” Natasha’s head snapped up, waving frantically for the engineers to run. They took the hint, “We’re gonna be okay, alright?” he was still breathing hard, still fighting for control, “I swear on my life, I will get you out of this, you will walk away and never ever—“

“ _YOUR LIFE?_ ” he thundered, eyes clastic green orbs burning into her.

Natasha’s heart stopped. She watched as he struggled, fighting his own skin with everything he had until it was too much. She pulled on her ankle with new force as Banner tumbled from their platform to the floor below, rolling and moaning with pain. There was one last moment, one fleeting look when he wasn’t gone. Natasha stopped breathing at the pain, the sympathy, the loss of hope and the plea for forgiveness.

“Bruce.” 

He was gone. The monster roared, and Natasha had to run.

 

+_+

 

Steve saw them first which was his only saving grace. He deflected the grenade on instinct and held down suppressive fire as best he could when the enemy was ducking corners with more fire power. The fall was his own stupid mistake, heart pounding as he latched onto the cable to keep from falling to his…

To keep from falling. Again.

He grappled with it, fighting wind and bullets to get back to the lever.

 

+_+

 

Clint was almost to the detention section when he realized she was behind him. He moved, but she moved faster. 

**Kill her.**

His throat closed. She grabbed his bow and he brought her in close to kick, she dodged his slash and forced him back before disappearing below and swinging back. She got in close again and rained holy hell, using his bow against him until he swung loose, drawing a dagger.

**Don’t hold back this time.**

He didn’t.

 

+_+

 

He was too late. Anger boiled under his skin. Hot, insidious, hate rolling under his skin when he saw the man wearing a SHIELD tac suit. He didn’t think twice before bashing his head. Hopefully he wasn’t dead, but then again, Phil couldn’t bring himself to care. 

_He took Clint. And I want him back._

“Move away, please,” Phil said, holding the gun/cannon monstrosity steady.

Loki paused, moving slowly away from the console.

“You like this?” Phil asked, his mouth moving before his brain could shut it up, “We started working on the prototype after you sent the Destroyer. Even I don’t know what it does,” he fired the machine up, “Do you wanna find out?”

There was a squelch behind him, forcing Phil forward and for a moment, he thought the man he’d knocked out (or killed) had pushed him. Then he felt the cold point slide out of him, he heard Thor’s scream, and he watched, in mild astonishment, as Loki faded right in front of him. He blinked. And slid to the floor. He watched, fighting for breath as Loki walked around him, back to the panel. Thor looked murderous, and as he fell, five stories and God knew how much air between him and earth, Loki looked satisfied.

 

+_+

 

Clint felt it. He felt it. He felt the satisfaction. The cold weight of Loki’s laugh role through him and it was enough to make him slow. Natasha took the opening for what it was, catching his arm and throwing in some good punches before twisting it back, forcing him to drop the knife. He threw it to his other hand, swiping down at her as his mind ran rampant.

**Kill her. _Kill her._**

_What happened?_

Natasha brought him in close again, holding his own dagger to his throat. He changed the trajectory, forcing it at her jugular and bringing her head in close. She fought it, turning at the last minute and biting, hard, into his forearm. He yelled, dropping her. She flipped over his arm and ran him into the metal railing with a resounding _crack_.

Clint stumbled, woozy and ineffective. The blue. The blue he hadn’t even noticed receded. He was weak and tired. He blinked, trying to focus on the figure before him.

“N’tasha?”

She struck, and the world went blissfully black.

 

+_+

 

“You’re gonna lose.”

It took every ounce of energy for Phil to say those words. It took no energy at all for Loki to turn to him, sneering.

“Am I?”

“It’s in your nature.”

Loki hummed condescendingly, “Your heroes are scattered. Your floating fortress falls from the sky. Where is my disadvantage?”

“You lack conviction.”

Something changed in Loki’s face, “I don’t think I’m—“

Phil shot. Once. Right through Loki’s smug chest, sending the Asgardian flying. Phil’s eyes misted over, he took another shallow breath before passing out.

“So that’s what it does.”

 

+_+

 

Steve pulled one hand over the other, fighting to get back to ground.

“Cap, hit the lever.”

Steve’s stomach sank, “I need a minute here!”

“Lever!” Stark urged, sounding panicked, “Now!”

Steve pulled harder, making the grate only to be welcomed by yes, another barrage of bullets thank you. Steve cursed, grappling faster until two small sounds nearly made his heart stop.

“Uh-oh.”

Steve didn’t even get to his feet, just lurched high enough to pull down with all his weight. He heard a grunt and a shout, then repulsors and a loud thud from the hall. 

“You okay?” he called.

“Yeah,” Stark sounded wupped, “Yeah I’m fine. You?”

“Yeah,” Steve closed his eyes for just a moment, letting the adrenaline do its worst, “I’m okay.”

“Agent Coulson is down.”

Steve stiffened, getting to his feet as he listened.

“A medical team is on its way to your location,” an agent called.

“They’re here,” Fury replied, sounding drawn, “They called it.”

Steve looked at Stark, but Tony was in his own head, mind running, eyes locked.

 _He is his fathers son,_ he realized and hated himself for it.

 

+_+

 

Forget anything he’d ever said before. _This_ was the worst hangover of Clint’s life. It felt like he was swimming, half conscious and all he **wanted** to do was sleep, fade back into **whatever blackness h** e’d come from. He di **dn’t need this. No one n** eeded **him. He could just slip out and go away and—**

He shook his head violently, fighting needles and cold and painful numbness over his entire body. He felt like a lead weight. He didn’t want to move. He had to move.

“Clint,” a voice said, steady and gentle, “You’re going to be alright.”

He flexed, feeling the restraints, “You know that?” he chuck **led through split lips and a split head, “Is that what you know?”**

He blinked through the pain again, feeling the power subside, “I’ve got no window,” he focussed on his breathing, fighting to inhale, “I have to flush him out.”

“You’ve got to level out,” Natasha replied, “It’s going to take time.”

“You don't understand,” he slurred, rolling his head, trying to put to words what was happening to him, “Have you ever had someone take your brain and play? pull you out and stuff something else in? Do you know what it’s like to be unmade?”

“You know that I do.”

Of course he did. Nastia Rostov. She knew exactly. He breathed deeply, looking around the room. he was in medical. On the Helicarrier.

“Why am I back?” he asked, “How’d you get him out?”

“Cognitive recalibration,” she replied easily, taking a seat, “I hit you really hard on the head.”

“Thanks.”

He couldn’t think of anything else to say so he watched her, a million questions running through his head.

“Natasha,” he said gently, “How many agents did I—“

“Don’t,” it was an order, “Don’t; do that to yourself, Clint.”

He grimaced, but stayed silent.

“This is Loki,” she said, low and dangerous, her accent slipping, “This is… monsters and magic and nothing we were ever trained for.”

“Loki,” Clint felt himself stiffen, “Did he get away?”

“Yeah,” it was almost a sigh, “Don’t suppose you know where.”

Clint shook his head, “Didn’t need to know. I didn’t ask.”

Natasha got up so Clint swung his legs over the bed, “He’s going to make his play soon, though. Today.”

“We got to stop him.”

“Yeah? Who’s we?” he returned, taking a sip of water.

“I don’t know. Whoever’s left.”

Clint nodded, “Well, if I put an arrow through Loki’s eye socket, I would sleep better I suppose.”

Natasha joined him once again, “Now you sound like you.”

“But you don’t,” he replied, “You’re a spy, not a soldier. But now you want to wade into a war. Why? What’d Loki do to you?”

She didn’t answer at first, then haltingly, “He didn’t. I just…”

Clint leaned in gently, giving her comfort, “Natasha…”

“I’ve been compromised. I’ve got red in my ledger.”

Clint looked away, heart seizing in his chest as he listened. He’d done that. He thought of everything he’d told Loki. Files of classified information memorized from years of working for a secret organization. Personal details about the closest people to the Initiative.

“I’d like to wipe it out,” she said. Clint knew with that phrase she forgave him. He knew it would be a lot longer until he forgave himself. 

Still he squeezed her hand and got up, “I’ll wash up.”

She nodded, letting him go. He closed the door to the tiny bathroom and turned on the faucet, at first just listening to the water run before thinking, _I wanted to destroy this_. He remembered everything. He could clearly see the choices he’d made; taking the easiest path, the straightest track from point A to point B. He hadn’t cared about who got in his way. He hadn’t cared what destruction he’d leave behind. Clint dunked his head under the water before he could think anymore about it. He grabbed the small soap and scrubbed his face, his hands… he dunked his head against wash off and pulled a towel from the bar. When he turned off the water he could hear Natasha talking to someone.

“Can you fly one of those jets?”

Clint opened the door, not even reacting to Steve Rogers, Captain America, standing in front of him. _Phil must have shit a brick._

“I can,” he said.

Cap looked from him to Natasha. She nodded.

“You got a suit?” he asked.

Clint nodded, “Yeah."

“Then suit up."

 

+_+

 

Okay, let it be known Wade did not _actively_ go looking for fights. He liked to think of himself as a rather good kid with some rather bad luck. Like today, for instance: he was just walking along, minding his own business when this skinny crackhead held him at gunpoint.

The crackhead said something. Wade was wearing his headphones so he didn’t hear it, “What?”

“I said give me your fucking money!” he shouted shrilly.

Wade stared at the guy, trying to figure out how he was supposed to be intimidated by a person who looked like a stiff breeze would blow him away.

“No.”

“I’m not fucking playin’, kid, I will fucking shoot you.”

Wade nodded to the gun, “Safety’s on.”

The man paused to look and Wade snatched the old thing right out of his hand, disassembling it immediately, “Dude this thing isn’t even loaded.”

“You fuckin!” the man raised his fist like he was going to… what? Smack him? Wade could take this guy in his sleep. Not that he really wanted to, but it was totally an option. But before he could do anything else, he shot into the air, scaring the shit out of Wade as he screamed, held up by a web.

A web.

Wade’s stomach rolled and he turned, finding exactly what he expected, “Are you talking to me again?”

“No,” Peter said stiffly, “You okay?”

“Oh, yeah, fine,” Wade shrugged, holding out the pieces of the gun, “You want to take care of these or should I?”

“You do it,” he turned, ready to swing away, but Wade wasn’t. This was the first time he’d actually spoken to Peter since school let out. He’d been dodging— well, _they_. _They'd_ been dodging each other for weeks.

“Wait!” he did reach out, but it was a near thing, “Just… Just wait a second, okay? Can we talk? Like human beings? Or at least like mutant spider dude and fucked up spy kid?”

Wow someone needed to tape Wade’s mouth shut. He should never speak again. To anyone. Ever.

But Peter stayed. Waiting. Not saying a word.

“I…” well, Wade hadn’t actually expected him to listen, “I heard. About Gwen, I mean. I’m sorry it didn’t work out.”

Peter didn’t answer. Wade fidgeted.

“Your suit bled in the wash again,” Wade continued, because he could never pick a good topic so why try, “I said it was some of my new gym stuff, though, so you’re safe.”

Still nothing.

“Will you please speak to me?” Wade asked, A crowd was growing around them, people stopping to shout at Spider-Man. Peter looked around, as if he was just noticing the growing mob and waved. Some people cheered. One girl screamed I love you and Wade’s stomach flipped grotesquely at the words.

“I’ll be at home,” Peter finally said, then shot up and out of the street, swinging away. Wade watched him go, heart racing until there was a thrum, like a low bass far away. He looked up, across the river to the city and froze in horror. There was a blue light shooting out of Stark Tower. As he watched, it coalesced into a large orb. And like some science fiction nightmare, small black shapes started falling through the blue. Wade nearly choked. He didn’t think, he just turned where he was standing and roared from the top of his lungs, “ _PETER!_ ” 

 

+_+

 

Midtown was in chaos. When they arrived, the destruction had already begun. Clint helped as much as he could, pulling out civilians and firing arrows as fast as he could draw.

“Just like Budapest all over again,” Natasha called.

Clint thought on that, checking above before deciding, “You and I remember Budapest very differently.”

Then some Chitauri got behind them and it took all of Clint’s skill to keep them off his back. Cap arrived again and not a moment later Thor. Clint took the time while the others talked strategy to collect some arrows. Even the trick one’s could be reused sometimes as regulars. He was hoping he found enough.

“The power surrounding the cube is impenetrable,” Thor said.

Stark agreed immediately over the comms, “Thor’s right. We gotta deal with these guys.”

“How do we do this?” Natasha asked.

“As a team,” Steve told her.

“I have unfinished business with Loki,” Thor rumbled.

“Yeah?” Clint asked, checking an arrow head, "Well, get in line.”

“Save it,” Cap cut in, “Loki’s going to keep this fight focused on us, and that’s what we need. Without him, these things could run wild. We got Stark up top. He’s going to need us to…"

There was a shudder/choke that had Clint looking up. And there, of all people was Banner, looking worn and dusty.

“So,” he said, looking around, “This all looks horrible.”

“I’ve seen worse,” Natasha commented.

Banner looked sheepish, “Sorry.”

“No,” she assured, not quite smiling, which was a standing ovation if Clint had ever seen one, “We could use a little worse.”

“Stark, we got him,” Cap said over the comms.

“Banner?”

“Just like you said.”

“Then tell him to suit up. I’m bringing the party to you.”

The giant worm chasing Stark peeled around the corner, looking like every bad sci-fi horror movie Clint had ever seen, but so much worse.

“I don’t see how that’s a party,” Natasha said. Clint couldn’t help but snort.

Banner looked at the worm, then their small group and back.

“Dr. Banner,” Cap called, “Now might be a really good time to get angry.”

“That’s my secret, Captain,” Banner smiled, looking for all the world like he was taking a stroll in the park, “I’m always angry.”

And yeah, the fighting got a little easier after that.

 

+_+

 

The flood from Manhattan was staggering. Wade fought through the humanity to get to the port, but once there, they wouldn’t let him board. He was frantic. He tried calling his dad, Coulson, Sitwell, Natasha, anyone, _everyone_ , but all cell towers were down. He nearly went ballistic on a cop who tried to get him away from the gate. The only thing to stop him was the crush of more people from more ferries. He tried calling his dad again, then Peter, but no one answered. No one would pick up and that killed him more than anything. His heart was in his throat as he flipped through his phone, going through Twitter, Facebook, seeing if anyone would answer, but all he kept seeing were pictures. Horrifying scenes of alien monster hybrids, gun fire, explosions, Captain America ( _Captain America???_ ) and all of that he could already see.

As he stared across the water and wanted to scream, he watched the worms float through to their dimension like some sort of fucked up magic trick. He watched Tony Stark flit between buildings and a boat of lightning from no where stretch down and electrocute the Empire State Building before arcing back up to the portal. And through it all people were still flooding from the island. People in private sailers, tug boats, barges… There was a _plan_ after September 11th. People were ready, but it was clear from the set of their mouths they’d prayed they would never have to use it.

Someone screamed through the crowd. Wade followed their line of sight to Peter (Peter, oh fuck no, don’t go in there, _PETER_ ), and down to a silver flash, a familiar red one not far behind. Wade didn’t know what it was, but knew there was no way it was good, especially if Iron Man was intercepting it. Then, almost like slow motion, Iron Man flew up, carrying the thing on his back and one second he was there and the next—

He was gone. Wade felt punched in the gut. He looked around to see if anyone else had witnessed what he just had, but no one around him was the same. They were still evacuating. They were still pushing past with no head to the destruction behind them. _Get to higher ground_. It was a mortar tapped out with ever foot step and Wade couldn’t do it. He just _couldn’t_ follow them. He wanted to help. He _needed_ to help. His dad could be in there. SHIELD agents he’d grown up with could be _in that fire fight_ and all he was—

Wade’s eyes never left the horizon. The thin blue circlet of the worm hole stayed in his view as the blue column collapsed, the portal shrank, and at the last minute, the Iron Man suit fell out of the sky. Down, down, disappearing between the sky scrapers. Wade closed his eyes and prayed he hadn’t just witnessed the last minutes of a dead man.

 

+_+

 

If Steve never saw another person fall through the sky again, it would be too soon. He watched, his heart in his throat as Stark fell and fell and fell with no intention of stopping before the ground broke his fall. Broke him. The thought had Steve going cold.

“He’s not slowing down,” Thor was winding up next to him, getting ready to throw, but Hulk beat him to it, catching the robot before crashing to the ground with all the grace of a disinterested five year old. Hulk took off his mask and for a minute, a full solid minute, Steve thought that was it. Tony Stark had made the ultimate sacrifice. Then Hulk roared and Stark gasped, shouting weakly. Hulk roared again, louder this time.

“What the hell?” Stark looked around, apparently unable to move, “What just happened? Please tell me nobody kissed me.”

Steve smiled, slumping just a little, “We won.”

Stark sighed in relief, “Alright, yay!” he said tiredly, “Hurray, good job, guys. Let’s just not come in tomorrow. Let’s take a day. You ever tried Shawarma? There’s a shawarma joint about two blocks from here. I don’t know what it is, but I want to try it.”

“We’re not finished yet,” Thor said.

Steve felt himself slump even more when he looked at Thor. Food sounded like an excellent idea.

“And then shawarma after,” Stark added.

 

+_+

 

Clint stayed as long as he could at the shawarma place, using every tactic he could to stay seated, but Thor was stuffing his face, Tony Stark was staring at him, and Captain America was falling asleep into his plate. He couldn’t take the silence anymore.

“I’m headed out,” he got to his feet, trying not to sprint.

“Uh,” Stark looked up, eyes focusing (maybe he hadn’t been staring), “Don’t you agent types need to, like, debrief for something? I heard you guys have a hard on for that.”

“Shut up, Stark,” Natasha snapped, sliding out of her chair to follow Clint.

Outside, Clint paused, “You think SHIELD will let me check on my son before they bury me?”

“They won’t bury you,” she replied.

Clint nodded, not believing her. Natasha shifted slightly, looking to the horizon, then back at her feet.

“Tash,” Clint said slowly, watching her, body stilling, “What are you not telling me?”

She opened her mouth, about to speak before closing it abruptly and meeting his eyes, “Coulson’s dead.”

Clint felt a lot of things in that moment. His chest seized, bright and harsh like a flash freeze. He assumed distantly he was breathing, because he was still standing. His mind was too blank, nothing flowing in and out of the emptiness. The street was eerily silent around them. He tried to focus on the distant sirens, the sound of people moving through the rubble, Natasha’s voice because she was saying his name. But there was nothing. He couldn’t hear his blood, his heartbeat. Just a piercing, shrieking silence. And the deadening feeling of a world stopped turning.

“What?”

He could barely feeling his vocal chords move, using Natasha’s softening eyes as confirmation he’d said anything at all.

“Phil died,” she said, quieter this time, “On the helicarrier. Fighting Loki.”

Clint felt his eyes mist over. He wasn’t shaking, but he did suddenly feel over warm.

“He died a hero, Clint,” Natasha said firmly and Clint wanted to punch her. Wanted to make her shut up because _fuck_ heroism. _Fuck_ the good fight. _Fuck_ everyone who didn’t protect Phil when Clint couldn’t. _Fuck_ the Avengers and Fury and SHIELD for letting—

 _Fuck them all_.

But he just nodded.

“I know,” his voice felt distant, too rough, “I knew he would. He’s always been a hero.”

Clint turned to leave. He needed to go away. To think. To sit. He needed to keep the stillness a little longer. But Natasha stopped him, “Clint—“

“I need to call my _son_ , Natasha,” it was the only time his voice broke. He fought for composure, letting his voice become harsh and sharp, hoping that would be enough, “I need to make sure he’s okay. I need to hear his voice.”

This time, when he turned away into the deserted street, walking through the rubble of a city he’d loved and helped destroy, Natasha didn’t stop him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to be completely honest with you guys, I do not like this chapter. As soon as I can dig myself out of the sand, I'll edit some more, but for now... That is totally not a thing. And hey it's the last movie chapter! YAAAY CONFETTI PARAAAAAADES! I'm super excited about that and now I don't have to sit in front of a TV/computer trying to make sure I can fit this with cannon, because from now on: WE ARE OFF PHASE TWO! THAT'S RIGHT FOLKS! NO MORE MOVIES! NO AGENTS OF SHIELD, NO AGENT CARTER, NO IM3, CA:TWS, THOR 2, GUARDIANS, NONE OF IT! FROM HERE TO FORE WE ARE RIDING THE WAVES OF MY ~IMAGINATION~! AU FOR THE NEXT FIVE CHAPTERS! HELLA CANNON DIVERGENCE! GUYS I'M SO EXCITED!
> 
> Ahem.
> 
> Next chapter: things happen. Some good. Some not so good. And some really, really bad.
> 
> :)
> 
> (( **EDIT:** I ADDED A SECTION TO THIS CHAPTER IT WAS SOARLY NEEDED I FEEL MUCH BETTER NOW THANK))


	21. Lost

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *witty opening, asks forgiveness, mentions exitement over chapter without spoilers much to folks chagrin, witty ending with overall blessings to you your cows and your kin* :*
> 
> #BetaThank

Wade stared at the ceiling, listening to the quiet ticking of a clock on one of the wooden beam shelves. Sunlight filtered through the window, no longer quite reaching his toes. The woman in the apartment across the street had been planting herbs and flowers in pots on her fire escape for the past hour. The apartment was quiet. The lights were off. The succulent sat calmly on the peninsula. Nothing moved. Only Wade breathed.

Finally, he heard his dad stir in the guest room and got up. He filled the coffee machine with water, letting it brew as he made eggs, sausage, toast… What he used to make when they had lived in Europe. A double portion for a long day. He laid out a plate while making some more for himself and listened. Finally his dad came out, ready for the day in a frayed t-shirt, worn jeans, and heavy boots. He was heading to Midtown again, the fourth day of four that week. He’d been sneaking on to clean up crews, a different one every day, only stopping to go home when someone realized he’d been out there longer than anyone. He didn’t sleep much, he talked less, and if Wade… if anyone…

Wade felt his heart constrict just thinking about the last few weeks. The news was all over SHIELD, Tony Stark, Captain America… There were think pieces featuring The Hulk, Bruce Banner, Eric Selvig and more questions than answers about wormholes. Aliens. Things Wade didn’t want to think about. He pulled jam from the fridge while his eggs fried, setting the small jar next to his dad’s elbow before turning away. They ate in silence. It felt claustrophobic. Wade wanted to ask his father questions, see how he was doing, what he was thinking, where he was going _specifically_. He felt like a parent and it made him keep his mouth shut. He knew he’d have to answer those questions too, if asked. And that was the absolute _last_ thing he wanted to do. Instead he cleaned up while his dad grabbed the last of his things… phone, wallet, ID… and returned to give Wade a kiss on the temple.

It was good to know some things never changed.

Wade watched his father shut the door firmly and began loading the dishwasher. He straightened his little camp on the couch, threw some laundry in a pillowcase, and pulled his gym bag over his shoulder. He took one last look around the apartment to make sure everything was as it should be, then shut the door, allowing the silence to reign once more.

 

+_+

 

Many of the trains were shut down because of the destruction, so it took a lot longer than usual to get to the Parkers’. Wade smiled when May opened the door, feeling the weight of the world in her kind words and gentle hug. He set his face to mirror May’s expression, the way Coul—

The way Coulson did.

The way Coulson _had_. When he was working with civilians or telling the barista at the corner shop his coffee was wrong. He was warm. Professional. Understanding but distant.

“Is Peter home?” he asked.

May nodded, “In his room. Are those for me?”

Wade handed over the pillowcase with slightly more embarrassed smile, “The water is still out at Dad’s, so…”

“Say no more,” she dismissed, raising her hand, “Go on upstairs and I’ll have all this done by dinner.”

“Thank you,” he gave her a quick kiss on the cheek and took the stairs two at a time out of habit.

Peter was at the door as soon as Wade made the landing. They didn’t speak until the door was closed again.

“I still think this is a terrible idea,” Peter said, watching Wade drop his gym bag and pull out his suit and combat boots.

“And I told you, you don’t have to follow me,” Wade replied easily.

Wade could feel Peter roll his eyes, “Yeah let the guy with nothing but spandex and a right hook take on all the bad guys in New York, sounds like a great idea.”

Wade pulled off his shirt and looked at Peter with a grin, “You noticed my right hook?”

“You favor it,” Peter dismissed, going to his closet to dig around, “Someone will catch onto that."

Wade grunted, pulling off his pants with as much noise as he could just to see if Peter’s neck would turn red. He was not disappointed.

“I’m not worried,” he replied, slipping into the suit, “I got some new toys anyway.”

“Really,” Peter deadpanned, shuffling around until he found his extra web cartridges.

“Oh yeah,” Wade smiled, pulling out his new utility belt and sidearm, buckling the first around his waist and the second around his leg. 

Peter’s eyes went wide when he turned, “ _You’re carrying a gun?_ ”

“Sure,” Wade goaded with a shrug, “Why not?”

“Dude, we’re supposed to be non-lethal!”

“ _You’re_ supposed to be non-lethal,” Wade corrected, checking the piece over. At the sight of Peter’s ashen face Wade gave up the act with a sigh, “Relax, it’s just a stun gun.”

“It looks pretty fucking real to me,” Peter said gravely.

“Oh my God, dude, look,” Wade stalked closer, releasing the clip, “These are specialty rounds made to incapacitate an attacker. They won’t kill anyone unless they have a pre-existing heart condition or whatever.”

“You’re willing to take that risk?” Peter demanded.

Wade blinked, took a step back, reloaded the clip and said simply, “Yeah,” because what a stupid question? All hands were on deck for the clean up. Officers were stretched thin throughout the city and the Avengers (who, yes did save the world, thanks for that) had all but disappeared when the dust had finally settled. The outer limits were becoming fair game for criminals and Wade was not having it. This was _his_ city. This was _his_ home. And he was going to fucking protect it the best way he knew how.

“Does your dad know you have those?”

“He’s not missing them if that's what you mean,” Wade knew Peter was probably chewing through his lip, but he ignored it, “I’m ready. You ready?”

Peter hesitated, then nodded.

“Good,” Wade pulled his mask on, setting the gun in its holster, “Let’s go.”

 

+_+

 

It was about two in the afternoon when Clint took his first break. He shuffled to the Salvation Army van and the offered paper bag and bottle of water with a smile and a thank you before wandering off somewhere else. Somewhere high. Just so he didn’t have to see anyone for a while. He still couldn’t look anyone in the eye. He’d been on rotating crews for… days. Weeks even. Honestly, he’d lost count. Right now he was just going through the motions, waking up, cleaning debris, and going home. He ate when he was hungry, he gave simple answers to simple questions, and he didn’t look at the news. Fury had him on temporary leave while the World Security Council was out for his blood. No one figured he’d stay in town, at least no one at the WSC, so he was relatively safe.

He shook out his shoulders as he picked a spot: a stairwell wrapped in yellow tape. Technically condemned but also shaded, and away from the eating crowd. He pulled out the little Uncrustable and nibbled on it half heartedly. He wasn’t really hungry, he was more looking forward to the water. _That_ he was done with in seconds before moving on to a bag of Cheetos, a cheese stick, and an apple, which was a nice change of pace from processed food. He wadded up his bag and tossed it in the trash before refilling his water bottle and heading back to the pile he’d been sorting through earlier. There were a few guys on this crew Clint had worked with before. They’d tried to talk to him, but after two or three failed attempts at conversation, they’d let him go. 

They were working near a bank, a great marble structure with pillars and a broken facade and a bunch of other crazy ostentatious shit Clint never understood. It was pretty, sure, but necessary? Definitely not. He didn’t let himself think about it further. Instead he went through sorting the debris for anything, filling up wheelbarrows with loose grout and stone, while also setting aside anything else. Valuables. A ring or a bracelet. Anything that could have been left behind. He’d found a body once. Early on. A man missing a leg and half his right hand. His face had been set in perpetual shock until Clint realized it wasn’t shock. It was decomp. He’d been under so long his face was loose. Jaw wouldn’t shut. Eyes wouldn’t shut. Blood slowly moving with gravity, finding the exits. Skin going grey, then bruised, then blackened where his limbs weren’t and blood had settled. Clint had found the nearest officer and discreetly informed him of the body. When the medics had lifted him in the bag, half his skull was still on the pavement. Clint didn’t feel sick about it. He’d seen worse. He’d _done_ worse. Of _course_ he’d done—

He shut his brain down and got back to work.

(He _had_ thrown up. Later. When he couldn’t disconnect any longer. When the full brunt of it all hit him like a Mack truck doing 80. When he’d idly wondered if they’d been able to identify the man because he’d looked like someone important. A stockbroker, maybe. With kids and a wife.)

Clint shuffled through the debris with no thoughts beyond his little patch when something creaked. He glanced up, scanning the area until he noticed the pillar just to the left of him. He eyed it as he worked, wondering if it was shifting or settling. He looked at the building in general, pausing for a moment to really study it.

“Are they trying to save this one?” he called to another guy not 10 feet away.

The guy did a double take, looking around before pointing at himself. Clint nodded so the man answered, “I think they’re trying to, but I don’t think it’s on the list yet.”

Clint nodded, looking back at the building.

“You a contracter?” the guy was at Clint’s elbow, wiping his head with a ratty faded hand towel.

Clint shrugged, “Sometimes.”

The man nodded. 

The pillar shifted again.

“Is there anyone in there?”

“Nah, they’re all across the street.”

Clint put a hand on the guy’s arm, “I think we should take a step back.”

“What?”

“Get everyone back,” Clint guided the man away a little harder than necessary.

“Uh, okay,” the guy looked more than confused, but called everyone to back up. Most did. Clint heard the shift again.

He turned to the small group, motioning to the opposite side of the street, command taking over, “Back up! Back up!”

The building creaked, then groaned, and like a leading starlet in some terrible 1950s remake, gave up the ghost. The facade crumbled inward, the roof collapsed and Clint was sprinting the wrong direction before he realized it, because there was a woman to the left of the falling structure trying to outrun the pillar, that damn same pillar he’d watched earlier and there was no way she was going to make it. Clint lunged, full body tackling her out of the way as the concrete and marble crashed and splintered on the pavement. Clint opened his eyes, heart racing as he jumped to his feet, assessing damage, checking for any more danger. There was none. The bank had collapsed into the underground garage below it.

“Oh my God.”

Clint spun on his heel, reaching out, apology on the tip of his tongue when the woman continued, “You saved my life.”

Clint’s heart stopped, mouth hung open, hand still extended, “What?”

The woman took his hand, pulling herself to her feet, “You just saved my life!”

“I—“ Clint didn’t know what to say, “I didn’t—"

“Holy _shit_!”

Clint jumped when a hand landed on his shoulder. His mind blanked until the man cried out and the woman screamed. Everyone was staring. Clint looked down at the man he had in an armlock and let go immediately. He looked around the crowd, his heart pounding out of his chest. His mind was running wild. Someone was talking, but the words didn’t make sense. More people were joining them. Police were running over.

“I’m not a hero,” he heard the words more than felt them. His world narrowed. He was staring at a black uniform and remembering a black suit and a half smile and stale coffee on a too hot day. He was remembering opening a locker that wasn’t his and removing all the things that were and staring at a photo on the door, at memorized crows feet, a strong nose, a receding hairline, eyes so warm, so bright with secret humor…

He felt his throat close. He looked at the cop in front of him, taking in too many details as the man tried to talk to him. He was having a panic attack. He couldn’t understand. 

He wasn’t a hero.

“Can you take a seat for me?”

Clint nodded, trying to ease down, feeling like an idiot, feeling like he needed to run. People were all around him, swarming the fallen bank. Swarming him.

“Can you tell me your name?” the officer asked, “What crew are you working on?”

Clint thought quickly. He wasn’t supposed to be there. He was a liability. He’d never expected to be caught. He shook his head in answer to buy himself some time.

“Is there someone I can call for you?”

Clint shook his head harder. Fury told him to stay low, if he found out—

“I’ve got him.”

Clint’s head snapped up, eyes wide, heart hammering as _Steve Rogers_ pushed through the crowd. He looked different. Scruffier. His beard was red. He was wearing a bright yellow reflective vest and steel-toed boots. His face was dirty and unfamiliar. He was wearing contacts.

Clint’s heart thumped harder.

“Breathe for me, Clint,” Steve ordered, keeping a hand on his back and his voice low, “Deep breaths. That’s it.”

Clint didn’t even know how to _begin_ feeling okay with this situation.

“You—“

“Don’t talk yet,” Steve cut in quietly, “Let me get you out of here first.”

Clint nodded, allowing Cap to take the lead.

 

+_+

 

Wade ripped off his mask with a hoot, slumping happily to the building’s edge and looking out over the city, “ _Damn_ that felt good!”

“You could have broken your neck, you idiot!” Peter swatted him over the head, then once more for good measure.

“Ouch! Unfair!” Wade chided, sulkily.

“Unfair?” Peter barked, “ _Unfair_? Wade, _unfair_ is bringing a gun to a knife fight! _Unfair_ is shooting a guy in the face without warning him first! _Unfair is diving off a fucking bridge without warning me first_!”

“I knew you’d catch me,” Wade replied easily. Peter smacked him again. Harder. Wade was going to get a concussion if he kept that up.

“Ow! Jesus, man! You do understand you have super strength, right?”

“It the only way I can haul your ass around,” Peter shot, angrily slumping next the Wade.

Wade patted his shoulder, but Peter pulled away, not looking at him, “Don’t do it again.”

Wade opened his mouth, a quip on the tip of his tongue, but he paused. He looked at Peter, really looked at him, and gave him his space, “You’re gonna bite through your lip if you keep chewing it.”

Peter glared at him, but Wade only smiled, looking back into the night.

“You wanna try Hell’s Kitchen?” he asked.

“No,” Peter answered immediately, “No part of me wants to try Hell’s Kitchen.”

“C’mon, let’s try Hell’s Kitchen!” Wade leaped to his feet.

“Wade we are not trying Hell’s Kitchen,” Peter said sternly, “Let’s try Bed-Stuy and go home.”

“Aw come on, we already did Bed-Stuy! Let’s do Fort Greene!”

“No.”

"Brownsville?"

“I will kick your ass if you try dragging me out there, Barton.”

Wade sighed dramatically, slumping in his suit, “Fine. Hunts Point it is.”

“ _No_ ,” Peter got to his feet, “No, we are not going to Hunts Point. We are going home.”

“Fun-sucker,” Wade spat, pulling on his mask.

“Are you gonna be a baby about this?” Peter asked.

“Just one more before we go home, please?” Wade pulled a face, hoping his mask was tight enough to look really pathetic.

Peter rolled his eyes, “Oh my God, _fine_. One more.”

Wade hooted again, jumping over the lip of the building and catching the fire escape. Later, he’d regret being so persistent.

 

+_+

 

Nat was the one who found them. Clint felt like his brain would explode he was so angry. He’d gotten home hours ago to an empty house, Steve in tow until he’d finally been satisfied that Clint really was okay.

“Seriously, Cap,” Clint assured for what felt like the millionth time, “I’ll be fine, I just need a nap.”

Steve finally relented, “Call Romanoff when you wake up.”

“Yeah,” Clint followed him to the door.

“Hey,” Steve turned at the last minute, something at the forefront of his mind. He’d glanced at the couch, where Wade’s blanket was folded on top of his pillow. Clint quirked a brow, ready for him to ask, but he backed off at the last minute, “You’ve got a nice place.”

And if anything that hurt more than the question he probably wanted to ask. Clint felt his throat close, and nodded with a thin smile. Steve turned away and Clint shut the door behind him. He didn’t make it to his bed. Suddenly the distance just seemed too much, so he laid down on the couch, his head buried in Wade’s pillow and slept for a good four hours. He was groggy when he finally woke up, his movements sluggish as he sat up to fumble with the remote. He picked up his cell phone, dialing Natasha by rote as he flipped idly through the channels.

“I heard,” she said.

“Yeah,” Clint sighed, “I’ll talk to Fury about skipping town in the morning.”

“I’m surprised he hasn’t called you now.”

Clint grunted, then paused, flipping back a channel. His heart skipped a beat, all the air leaving his lungs in a great _woosh_.

“Clint?”

He couldn’t speak. His heart leaped again as they played the footage over. He watched his son _again_ plunge over the side of the Williamsburg Bridge, caught at the last minute by Peter Parker as Spider-Man. Clint clenched his phone to his ear, “Wade.”

“What about Wade?” Natasha sounded like she was moving, “What happened?”

Clint was speechless. They played the footage all afternoon. 

At least when he finally walked through the door, changed back into jeans and one of Clint’s old flannels, he had the decency to look ashamed. Wade stood by the edge of the couch, hands fidgeting. Clint didn’t say a word, he didn’t know where to start. The last time he’d been this angry at Wade he’d had…

He’d had someone there to talk him down, at least a little. Now there was no one. Just him and his son.

“Dad,” Wade finally croaked, “I’m s—“

“Shut up.”

Wade’s hands froze on his hem.

Clint stood, “What did I say.”

Wade shrank in his skin, looking down at the floor.

“WHAT DID I SAY?” he bellowed.

Wade flinched, but still didn’t respond.

Clint could feel his face burning, his heart pounding, “DO YOU THINK THIS IS _FUNNY_?” he roared, “DO YOU THINK THIS IS A _GAME_?”

“No,” Wade sound small when he finally spoke.

“ _NO_ ,” the word cracked like a gunshot, “NO, YOU DIDN’T THINK _AT ALL_. YOU DIDN’T STOP TO THINK FOR ONE FUCKING SECOND.”

“I’m sorry.”

“NO, YOU’RE NOT FUCKING SORRY. YOU’RE CHILDISH. I TOLD YOU TO STOP THIS VIGILANTE BULLSHIT. I TOLD YOU TO LEAVE IT ALONE.”

“I just wanted to help,” he mumbled.

Clint felt like he was going to fly apart, “ _The city doesn’t need you, Wade_. The city has police officers. The city has more capable—“

“What, like the Avengers?” Wade snapped, shutting Clint up, “Where are they? Huh? Tony Stark? Captain America? Where are they? What, are they in hiding? Are they crawling through debris all day, pretending they’re just like everyone else? Are they going door to door saying hey sorry we got your son killed, how about a complimentary—“

Clint punched Wade solidly in the jaw, sending his son stumbling. Wade looked stunned. Clint didn’t even have time to realize what he’d done before Wade’s fist connected with his cheek. He lost his footing, landing hard, his back and elbow cracking on the coffee table. He heard the door slam as he laid there, dazed and staring at the ceiling. Every part of him broke. He didn’t stop sobbing for hours. 

 

+_+

 

Wade hissed when he touched his jaw, stomping down the stoop and out to the sidewalk. He didn’t know where he was going. He didn’t care. He was so angry he could barely see. He just put one foot in front of the other and allowed that to be enough. He didn’t see the men in the alley. He didn’t feel the threat until a rag was over his face, until he struggled, until he was punched again.

He didn’t worry until he remembered no one knew where he was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, forwarning, I'm not changing the bold tag, but THERE WILL BE MENTIONS OF TOTURE. GRAPHIC MENTIONS. THIS IS YOUR FIRST WARNING. YOUR SECOND WILL BE AT THE TOP OF THE NEXT CHAPTER. THERE WILL NOT BE A THIRD. But there will be a brief overview of that chapter at the end if you just want to skip it all together. Anyway. Thank you again for reading, seriously you folks are the best I can't describe it.


	22. And Then

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To anyone still reading, and waiting for this story... Thank you. Bless you. All the Fritos belong to you. I have had a crazy last few months. Nobody died this time, which I feel is a step up (read past rambles for that nonsense), but I did just move about 950 miles from home. Needless to say it took a minute. And now I'm looking for a Job and a roommate. And a kitchen table because hey, forgot that too.
> 
> Anyway, as I said before THERE IS TORTURE AHEAD!!! PLEASE READ WITH DISCRETION!!! IF YOUR NERVOUS JUST SKIP THE CHAPTER AND READ THE END NOTES!!!
> 
> Honestly I don't think I kept it just abstract enough to be palatable for most audiences but really, truly, if you're squeamish, please be careful.
> 
> Also this chapter is unbetaed totally because I got antsy and posted early, so any mistakes you see are mine and should be reported promptly. You you know... not at all.
> 
> I don't run your life, I'm not about to make your choices.
> 
> Anyway, enjoy, and thank you again.

In another world, Clint was probably waking up with a hangover, after a fight, or just hours after a night of amazing sex. In that world he was probably happy, or sad, or regretful. In this world, Clint woke up with a crick in his neck from falling asleep in a weird position on the couch. He felt tired and slow. His mouth was dry. His eyes were full of grit. It would be just another day, just like any other day, but it wasn’t. Because he’d helped defeat an alien invasion about a month ago. Because his best friend in the entire world, his rock, Philip James Coulson who liked his coffee sweet, and had twelve sets of reading glasses scattered randomly throughout his apartment, and never left a pencil out of place in his office but had once showered fully clothed because he was so tired after three missions in 48 hours, who called his sister at least twice a week and visited a graveyard in Connecticut exactly once a year with a bouquet of irises because he’d confided in Clint they’d been his mother’s favorite flower, that man was dead.

Because Clint had hit his son.

That last one sent a shot of pain straight through his lungs. He gritted his teeth and dug the heals of his hands into his eye sockets. He cleared his mind like he was sighting a shot and took three slow deep breaths. His phone going off sent him lurching so hard he nearly fell off the couch. He fumbled with it until the ringing stopped and held it to his ear.

“H’lo?” he cleared his throat, sitting up and swinging his legs to the floor, “Hello?”

“You sound like shit,” Natasha stated.

“Good morning, Nat,” Clint laid back down, covering his eyes with his forearm.

“It’s almost three.”

“Oh,” Clint peeked out from behind his arm to judge the sunlight, “Good afternoon.”

Natasha hummed, sounding disinterested, “Why are you still in bed?”

“I’m on the couch,” Clint grunted, finally getting to his feet and over to the bathroom.

“Why are you on the couch, then?”

“Looked comfy,” Clint dismissed, turning her on speaker and splashing his face. It stung painfully below his eye, “What do you want, Natasha?”

There was silence. So long Clint thought maybe she’d hung up, “Natasha?”

“Where’s Wade?” suddenly she sounded much more light hearted.

Clint’s lips tightened, “Over at the Parker's I think.”

There was another stretch of silence, “What did you do?”

Clint sighed, feeling the added stress of his best friend’s judgement on top of his own self-hatered. 

“A lot of things I regret,” he said.

Natasha sighed, “Clint…”

Clint didn’t answer, just carried the phone to the kitchen and set it on the peninsula while he scrounged for food. His head was throbbing, maybe he should look for Advil too. Natasha was silent over the line, but Clint was fine with that, he could be quiet too when he wanted.

“Have you called him yet?” she asked.

Clint shrugged while he poured cereal, “I’ll give him the day.”

There was more silence over the line. This time much louder and much harder to ignore, “I promise I’ll call.”

“I know,” she said, “I’ve got to go.”

“Yeah,” Clint looked down at his dry cereal, “I’m taking the day, so if you want to stop by later…”

“I’ll bring company.”

Clint nodded again without a word and ended the call. He stared at the bowl a moment longer before pouring it carefully back into it’s box and going back to the couch.

 

+_+

 

The first thought through Wade’s head when he woke up was, _Huh. Well now I know what chloroform smells like._

He snorted, which ended up being a terrible idea. His nose, head, and mouth felt stuffed with blood, cotton, and... something... respectively. He tried to move his tongue to get an idea what was blocking his throat, but whatever it was was solid and unyielding.

"Boss," a voice swam into his periphery, "Boss, I think he's wakin' up."

Wade tried to look up to the voice, but his neck felt like putty. He rolled it to the side instead, examining the man's boots. They weren't military issue, just store bought hunting boots. Maybe just as good depending on their intentions. Wade was having a hard time concentrating. He knew he should be worried, but his head was so thick and his thoughts were so slow...

"Hold up his head," a distinctly unaccented voice snapped.

Wade felt his hair get pulled back and inhaled a full breath for the first time since he woke up.

"Hello, Mr. Barton," the man was middle aged, with sharp eyes and high cheeks. His eyes were grey, his hair was thick, and there was something very, very wrong here. The man leaned forward, bracing on the arms of the chair Wade was unfortunately tied to, "I am not sure if you remember me; my name is Malone, we spoke on the phone very briefly."

Wade cast around in his muddy thoughts but the name didn't ring a bell. He tried shaking his head, but it was just as bad an idea as laughing.

"Ah," the man stood up straight, "I thought not. How unfortunate. We made a deal, you see, when we spoke and unfortunately, you have not come through with your part, though I so generously came through on mine."

Wade was even more lost. His brain was screaming at him, but his body couldn't moving and he didn't know... he didn't know...

"I lost five of my best men during your raid," Malone's face darkened at the memory, "and all I have to show for it is a bounty on my head. Now, I am not a man to make unjust demands, but I do believe my price has just gone up. Five million for reparations and one million for each life lost. I feel that is fair. What do you say, Mr. Barton? Will the Strategic Homeland Intervention Enforcement and Logistics Division pay ten million dollars to have you back unharmed?"

The person pulling Wade's hair tightened his grip, another hand splayed his fingers on the wooden arm. Wade's heart plummeted, his brain finally catching up with his predicament. They didn't show you their faces if they were planning to let you live.

"I would never be so cruel as to take the infamous eyes of Hawkeye," Malone drawled, "his hands, however..."

 

+_+

Clint woke up again to a knock at the door. He rolled off the couch, not even bothering to check who was there before unlocking the door and heading to his room for some clean clothes.

“We brought take out,” Natasha called. Clint pulled on a clean shirt and semi-clean jeans before joining his guests barefoot. 

Steve smiled as he unloaded a bag of Ethiopian food, “I hope you don’t mind, Natasha said I could tag along.”

“No problem,” Clint put on a smile and shook his hand, “Thanks for coming, Cap.”

“Have you heard from Wade?” Natasha asked, getting straight to the point as she slid glasses of water and empty plates onto the bar.

“No,” Clint replied.

“Did you call him?”

“I said I’d give him the day,” Clint glared half heartedly at his glass.

Natasha hummed in responce. Clint glanced at Steve as he doled out the food, seemingly content to be talked around, though Clint could almost taste his curiosity.

“Wade is my son,” he finally blurted, Steve’s eyes lifted to meet his, “We got into a fight last night.”

Steve’s eyebrows twitched and he glanced at Clint’s cheek, “That happen often?”

Clint felt sick. He could only imagine what Captain America was thinking, “Never. This—“ Clint motioned to his face, “This never happens. It was my fault. I over reacted.”

“I’m sure you weren’t the only one,” Natasha commented from her spot leaning next to the succulent.

Clint sighed, “We both messed up, but I did first.”

“And you haven’t spoken to him?” Steve asked.

“I want to give him space.”

“Sometimes,” Natasha said, pulling a plate towards her, “there’s such a thing as too much space.”

Clint sucked his teeth in thought. It had already been, what? 22 hours since they last spoke? “I’ll just call May. Make sure he’s still over there.”

He got up and searched for his phone in the wreckage that was now the couch, then walked to his room to make the call, leaving Natasha and Steve to start eating without him.

“Parker Residents,” May chimed.

“Hey May, it’s Clint.”

"Clint! So good to hear from you! How's Wade? Natasha didn't look happy when she picked him up last night."

Whatever niceties Clint was about to say died in his throat, "Wait, Wade isn't there?"

"I don't think so, I haven't seen him if he is," soft clattering in the background stopped abruptly as May adjusted the phone and called, "Peter! Did Wade ever come back last night?"

There was a moment of silence, where time seemed to suspend and Clint waited for May Parker to come back on the line and tell him she'd misspoken and he'd been sulking upstairs all day.

"I'm sorry, Clint, he's not here."

Clint swallowed roughly, "You're sure?"

"Peter says he hasn't picked up his phone... but assures me that happens when Wade's upset," she sounded less than satisfied with that excuse and Clint couldn't blame her, "Is everything alright?"

"Yeah," Clint rubbed his face, trying to calm his mind, "Yeah, I'm sure it is. I'm going to call a few other places he could be."

"And I'll have Peter call some of their friends. He'll call you when he's finished."

"Thanks May, I'll be in touch."

Instantly Clint hung up and called Jasper.

"Sitwell," there was the sound of artillery in the background, but Jasper himself sounded bored. Must be a training session.

"Hey did Wade crash with you last night?" Clint asked.

Sitwell snorted, "He doesn't even know where I live."

Cling gritted his teeth in frustration, "Have you heard from him?"

"I'm sure he's still pissed I told you about the gym-- CARLOS IF YOU LET HER GO ONE MORE TIME I'M DEMOTING YOU TO JANITOR OF BASEMENT LEVEL FIVE DON'T TEST ME!-- Yeah, I haven't heard anything from him in a while. Call Patrice, he could have tabs."

"Why would Patrice have tabs on my son?" Clint asked, slightly thrown.

"He's the Butler, he has tabs on everyone."

Clint frowned, "I'll give him a call."

"I'm sure he's been wandering the city all night," Jasper said, "He's fine."

"Thanks, Jas."

Clint hung up again, tapping his phone before getting up to go back to the kitchen, calling the New York office.

_You have reached the help desk of--_

Clint pressed one.

_To speak with an operator--_

He dialed his SHIELD ID and the extension for security.

"Everything alright?" Steve asked, looking up from his food. Natasha paused in eating as well, eyes narrowing.

"Wade wasn't at the Parkers," Clint replied, then immediately after the line clicked, "Did Wade Barton check into base last night?"

"Negative, Sir," the automated female voice responded.

Clint's heart leaped for all the wrong reasons, "Run a trace throughout Manhattan and surrounding boroughs for Wade W. Wilson, Wade W. Barton and all alternatives."

"Searching... Search will exceed 15 minute wait time. Would you like to stay on the line?"

"Yes."

"Is he not on base?" Natasha asked.

Clint shook his head, phone still attached to his ear. Natasha immediately got up and grabbed her own. Steve stayed where he was, his concern growing.

"I'm guessing this doesn't happen often either?" Steve asked dryly.

"Congratulations, Cap," Natasha sounded just as airid, phone plastered to her ear as well, "You've joined us on an unusual day."

 

+_+

 

 _He felt like a head, floating heavily in darkness. There was nothing below his frontal lobe, he knew that for a fact. He was a brain. And there was nothing out there but dull_ lness. And grey. And another set of razors slicing through his arms and legs. A line of white hot over his chest and thigh.

“Hold him steady.”

Wade nearly broke. He screamed, his eyes closed against the pain, the phantom touches on insides he shouldn’t see. Then the salt. He thought he’d screamed before. Those were groans. They washed his thigh with something wet and cold and much… much… No. No, too much, too much. Make it stop. Make it s _top. Stop it you’re hurting me. Stop it, stop, stop please..._

 

+_+

 

Natasha didn’t say a word. She and Steve drove in silence, Clint already ten minutes ahead of them. Peter had called before the security team had been done with it’s sweep, saying none of their friends had heard from him. Clint had mentioned as much to Natasha before resuming his hold, becoming more antsy by the second.

“Here,” Steve had tossed something to Clint, which he caught deftly, “Take my bike to base. Maybe they’ll be faster with you present.”

Clint barely nodded before he was out the door. Natasha had Steve help her wrap up the food, completely adverse to leaving clutter where she knew it wouldn’t have been appreciated, then grabbed her own keys with a short, “Let’s go.”

“Where are we going?” Steve asked.

“Stark,” though Natasha was even more adverse to admitting it, “JARVIS may be a little faster about finding a missing kid in New York.”

“Here’s to hoping,” Steve sounded grim, matching Natasha’s mood, “Should we call ahead?”

“I already did.”

And true to form, there in the lobby was Pepper Potts, flanked by a very suave looking Happy Hogan in sunglasses and a coiled ear piece.

“Agent Romanoff,” She smiled, “Captain Rogers. If you’ll follow me, please.”

“Still screening Stark’s visiters?” Natasha teased as they made their way to the back elevator.

Pepper snorted, “I think we can classify this as extenuating circumstances.”

The ride to Stark’s temporary lab, lasted no more than a minute. Stark himself looked like he hadn’t slept in much longer.

“Spangles,” he greeted, pausing in his work to eye his guests with some level of poorly hidden apprehension, “Red. Are we getting the band back together so soon? Because I gotta tell ya, green and not so mean and I have a couple of projects we’re working on and—“

“Tony,” Pepper cut in, “They need help.”

Tony screwed his face, “Help? America and Russia’s finest need help from little old me?”

“Tony—“

“I’m touched.”

“Tony.”

“No, truly.”

Pepper's phone went off and with an exhasperated sigh, she walked away to answer it.

“We need you to find someone,” Natasha finally said, “Wade Barton. 16, blond hair, blue eyes—“

“Wait, wait, wait, wait, wait,” Tony threw his arms up to stop her, “Barton as in Agent Birdbrain? He has a son?”

“And he’s missing,” Steve replied, putting some command in his voice, “We need your help finding him.”

Stark gave Steve a long assessing look, before he turning on his stool, “JARVIS run a trace. See if anything about Wade Barton comes up, blond, blue eyes, probably, I don’t know, how tall are kids today? 5’8”? 5’9”? Whatever the average 16 year old looks like. With, what? Authority issues?”

“He doesn’t have a record,” Natasha couldn’t help interjecting.

“Of course he doesn’t, Daddy works for the government,” Stark dismissed.

Natasha frowned.

“And how come,” Stark continued, turning back to them, “I haven’t heard of Little Barton Junior before this? I feel this was pertinent information knowingly hidden from me—“

“Maybe you didn’t hear about him because you didn’t ask,” Steve snapped, “You rarely listen to anyone but yourself anyway.”

“Well who else would I listen too?” Stark asked innocently. There was a ping, before Steve could speak, sending everyone’s eyes to the blue screen hovering behind him.

“No hits for the name Wade Barton, Sir,” JARVIS said, sounding surprisingly apologetic for a robot.

“Try Wade Wilson,” Natasha said.

There was a moment of silence, then, “My apologies, Agent Romanoff, there is nothing.”

“Says here Wade Wilson saved a fellow student during that lizard attack at Midtown High last year… And why does SHIELD have psych evals on an 11 year old?” Stark asked, interestedly.

Natasha’s phone rang, “Romanoff.”

“They couldn’t find him,” Clint sounded strained, “We’re trying his chip now.”

“Tell me when they’ve got it.”

There was one beat of silence then two.

“They’ve got it.”

“Hack into SHIELD’s servers,” Natasha interrupted Steve and Stark’s little snipe off, “They’re trying to triangulate him now.”

“I am following SHIELDs route as we speak,” JARVIS replied, pulling up a map of the world. A large circle pinged momentarily over the northeast portion of the US. Then the east coast. New Jersey. Shrinking every other second until it stuttered. 

And stopped.

Clint cursed, but Natasha couldn’t hear it over her own rushing heart beat.

 

+_+

 

_The throbbing continued long after he should’ve passed out. He could feel something like small needles constantly attacking his insides, his head cracked wide and pooling on the floor to be stomped on by spiked jackboots. He felt nauseous. He felt insane. He felt like laughing. Let me die, he thought, he screamed._

_Let me die. Please, just let me die._

 

+_+

 

He was somewhere in a five mile radius of Jersey City. 

"Clint. Clint calm down," Natasha ordered, but Steve wasn't really listening. He was thinking.

The city had changed too much. He didn't know the lay anymore.

"Okay," he leaned in close to Stark, searching the last known location for any clues, "I need you to run a search."

"For?" Stark was already typing.

"Gangs in the area," Steve instructed, "Places where you can hire muscle. If he was taken chances are someone's talking."

"Right."

"While your at it check shelters, spots where homeless kids hang around."

"He's not hiding from us," Natasha said over his shoulder.

Steve turned, giving her a reassuring look, "It's just a precaution."

Natasha scowled, turning on her heal, "Send me the locations when you've compiled a list."

"Hang on, I'll come with you," Steve said.

"Yeah and I'll do all the heavy lifting," Stark waved absently over his shoulder, a dog searching for a bone, "You kids have fun."

Steve just rolled his eyes and followed Natasha out.

 

+_+

 

Wade felt like he was set on fire. Someoen had their fingers burried in his arm. Someone pulled his head back. Something flashed in his eyes. If wade could speak he might've groaned in pain. But the pain was so strong at this point it was numbing. He could feel lings happening, he could hear someone speaking, but his senses were so over loaded, there was no point even attempting to focus. What he needed was sleep. Or death. Death sounded pretty good too.

 

+_+

 

Natasha and Steve met Clint in the center of their search area.

"Melinda and Jasper are right behind us with back up," she said, "And you seem to have a shadow."

"I know," Clint gritted, "He's been on me since I crossed the bridge."

"We could use his help," Natasha pointed out, "He can move faster then we can at this point."

"He's wearig a bright red and blue suit," Clint reminded her, "He's not exactly subtle."

"He can do aerial," she replied deftly.

"He's 16!"

"I agree with Clint, he's much too young for something like this," Steve said.

"Uh, guys? I'm right here," Peter raised his hand next to Clint.

"And you're going home," Clint snapped.

"I want to help," Peter said forcefully.

"We need the numbers," Natasha reminded.

"Not this badly," Clint abomished.

"Look," Steve cut in placatingly, "Let's let him help."

Clint was about to object, but Steve continued, "Natasha's right, he can be aerial support. There's no need for him to be on the ground at all," then Steve turned the full power of his stare on Peter, who only slightly shrank, "We've got a lot of ground to cover, and we're going to need your help. Anything you see that might be important you find us and you let us know, got it?"

"Yes, sir," Peter gulped, then hesitated, "So what's the area exactly?"

"Right now it's all of Jersey City," Steve said, "Think you can do a sweep then report back?"

"You got it," and Peter was gone.

Clint was furious, "He shouldn't be here!"

"We can't stop him from showing up," Steve watched him go before turning back to Clint, "But we can keep him up and out of trouble for now. Let's get started and have the others catch up."

 

+_+

 

Wade was done. There was officially nothing more they could do to him. _(There was so much more they could do to him.)_ He was a husk. A bleeding, pulpy, squishy husk. They'd pulled some of his teeth at some point. And he'd finally thrown up all over himself. _(Awesome.)_ But for some reason he couldn't fathom, after hours and hours of never ending torture, they'd stopped. Abruptly, Wade felt. And with little inference to him. No, not inference. Thought. Judgement. _(Consideration.)_ That was the word. With little consideration for him. After all he was their captive and sure he looked like hell and yeah he was most likely bleeding out, but where was the civility? 

Who the hell was he kidding? He could barely hear himself think. The pain was so... the pain...

Let's not think about the pain. Let's think about the cold. Because it was fucking freezing and Wade was sure it had to do with much of his blood being all over the floor along with... wait was that his intestines? On his lap? If they were, they were a lot darker than he imagined. Wait there was white at the edges... a cloth? God, he'd hate to have to wash that out. That stain was permanent, no doubt. _(Seriously.)_

"They did quite a number on you, didn't they?"

Wade looked up with only his eyes. He wasn't sure he could move much else.

The man in front of him was white with no teeth and dark, dark eyes. Actually, redacted. The man was white because he was wearing white, and he had no teeth becasue he was wearing a mask. And he had gauz or something. Wade had lost a lot of sensation, so he really couldn't tell if this guy was helping or hurting.

"Can you tell me your name?"

Wade blinked. It was potentially the only thing he could do that didn't hurt. Other than drool.

"Did they take your tongue too?"

Wade blinked again, trying to remember morse code for asshole. Or dick. Dick was shorter.

"You know there's not much to save here," the man turned as he spoke, facing other people Wade assumed were just out of his eye shot, "Are you sure he's worth it?"

"The pretty penny he'll pull in?" someone chuckled, "Totally worth it. Even you'll be able to retire rich, Doc."

The man snorted, turning back to Wade, "I like the sound of that."

No, fuck you. Wade was sure he remembered morse code for fuck you.

"So who is he?"

"Clint Barton," a smug voice said, "The infamous Hawkeye."

Doc glanced back over his shoulder with a snort, "This isn't Hawkeye. This kid's too young."

"Wha'd'ya mean, kid?" the foice sounded afronted, "I got his ID right here, See? Clint Barton."

"This is not Clint Barton," Doc held the laminated card next to Wade's face, "He looks nothing like him."

"The fuck you talkin' about?" a hand snatched the card from Doc's hand, "You mean we been wastin' our time on the wrong fuckin' guy?"

"Apparently," Doc sat back, gently raising Wade's head to look him in the eye.

"Who are you?" he asked.

After two great gulps he replied, "Wade Barton. Hawkeye's son."

That's when the first arrow hit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bad guys nab Wade, thinking he's his father because they find his dad's badge on his person (the one he stole back in chapter 16), and torture him for fun apparently. Meanwhile, Clint is having his own crisis and after talking it over with Natasha (and Steve), decided to hunt his son down. When he doesn't show up where he should, Clint releases something is horribly wrong and notifies SHIELD. Meanwhile, Meanwhile, Natasha and Steve go to Tony for help finding Wade and once Clint get's Wade's tracker turned on... it's cut off mid search. Fast forward to the bad guys, they've stopped torturing Wade and called a doctor to patch him up. It's the doctor who informs the bad guys Wade is not Clint, and it's Wade who tells them who he truly is.
> 
> As per usual, questions, comments, concerns, and kudos are all viewed, loved, and appreciated. Also, you can still find me being awkward [on the floor looking kinda dead with my dog using me as a pillow so she can watch America's Got Talent at a better angle](http://boomsnapwhist.tumblr.com).
> 
> So yeah, thank you, and your awesome, and stay cool, and I love you. Seriously.


	23. Found

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't hate me for this one guys. Or do. That's really totally up to you.

Clint didn't remember how he got there. He remembered Peter saying something about a warehouse. He remembered Natasha or Steve or someone over his shoulder saying, _wait_.

He remembered loosing an arrow into a man's hand only inches from his son's face.

He remembered bashing one man...

( _Clint smacked the gun off his head and launched himself at Romo's chin. The gangster wannabe cried out when Clint disarmed him, breaking his thumb in the process--_ )

...then two... 

( _\--the goon's moved, but Clint was faster. He shot them without thinking, each crumbling with a scream--_ )

...into the ground. He remembered breathing, as he held a gun to another man's head. A man who looked at once not and too familiar.

( _He spun back to Romo, the gun right on his forhead._ )

He pulled the trigger.

The silence rang through his ears like a muted bell. His heart was hammering and all that was left, all he had left...

"Dad..."

Clint spun on his heel, tears threatening. He was on his knees in front of his son, his beautiful boy, and he couldn't stop himself. He reached shaking hands, desperate to find clean skin under the matting of blood and hair. He saw where they had shaved half his scalp, connected electrodes--

"Wade," Clint couldn't keep his voice steady if he tried, but _God_ did he try, "Buddy, can you hear me?"

There was a whimper and Wade moved as if to raise his head, but Clint stopped him with a gentle hand, "Hey, son, hey. It's okay, don't move I got you, okay? Can you hear me, buddy?"

"Hurts..." Wade drooled down his front, his jaw fractured, or at the very least dislocated. How was he talking?

Clint hissed through his teeth, wiping his face on his sleeve before saying in a stronger voice, "I now, buddy, I know. Stay with me, help is on the way, I got you."

"He's tied to the chair," Steve said above him. Clint nodded, not really understanding. Then Wade was falling forward and Clint reached out, being as gentle as he could, so gentle...

Wade let out a keening sob, raising his hand to Clint's shoulder. He didn't have any fingernails.

"Oh God," Clint gasped, squeezing his eyes shut so he didn't squeeze his son.

_Not again,_ he thought wildly, savagely, _Please, not again. I can't lose them both._

Voices grew louder around him, but Clint couldn't make out the words. He was too focused on his son's heartbeat, faint, so faint, but there, barely strong enough to make it to his neck.

_Breathe,_ he prayed, forcing his own shaking breaths, _Just keep breathing for me, please._

"Clint," Natasha's voice broke through like the crack of glass, her hand over warm on his shoulder, "The paramedics are here for him."

Clint nodded, finally noticing the many agents and medical personnel hovering around him, looking impassive as stone. He loosened his grip, heart breaking when Wade wouldn't let go.

"No..."

"It's okay," Clint soothed immediately, "It's okay, I'm right here, buddy, alright? I'm right here, and I'm not leaving, I promise."

Wade sighed, just barely relaxing his grip for Clint to pull away. He didn't go far, eyes trained on his son as they laid him on the stretcher, trying to get him stable before moving.

"Go," Clint wrenched his eyes away from Wade long enough to meet Natasha's, "We'll handle it from here."

Clint nodded, grateful for her strength as the medics raised the stretcher and loaded Wade in. Clint climbed silently next to his son and took his hand, a distant part of him wondering if this would be the last time.

 

+_+

 

Natasha watched the ambulance pull away, glancing over her shoulder as Steve joined her.

"Did he kill them all?" she asked.

Steve shook his head, "Just the one. Spider-Man's pretty shaken up about it."

Natasha quirked a brow, "Spider-Man?"

"That's the only name he'd give me," Steve shrugged.

Natasha smirked, giving the area a brief review. Peter was gone, probably chasing the ambulance back to the city.

"So what do we do with them?" Steve asked, motioning to the two men in zip cuffs sitting on the floor. Sitwell was squatting in front of one, probably warming him up if the man's scowl was anything to go by. May flicked a look to Natasha and she nodded.

"We wait," she replied.

"For what?"

"For me, hopefully," a charming voice said behind them. Natasha turned, holding out a hand for the man to shake. He wasn't particularly broad, or particularly tall, but where Coulson had been able to blend in with his relatively average looks, Patrice somehow stood out. His hair was somewhere between brown and blond without actually being either, his eyes in the same way seemed to change from grey to green to hazel, and his face was almost boyish, even with it's six o'clock shadow.

The man was a true social butterfly around headquarters, often knowing things before Fury, it was rumored. Besides that (or maybe because of it) no one was really sure what he did at SHIELD. Some thought he'd originally been in HR, others considered him Internal Affairs. There was one rumor that claimed he'd sought Fury out personally to enter SHIELD for protection against mobsters in Chicago (which seemed like a terribly generic and ill conceived reason, even by SHIELD standards, meaning it was probably the truth. Or part of it.) Whatever the case may be, Patrice was a jack of all trades; the guy you went to when you had a lot to do and very little time to do it.

"Agent Romanoff," he clasped her hand genially, as if they were meeting for brunch, "So good to work with you again. Captain Rogers, it's an honor. Noah Patrice."

Steve nodded to Patrice's dark washed jeans and blazer, "I hope we didn't interrupt anything."

"Oh," Patrice looked down at himself ruefully, "Yeah. I was having dinner with my family. My daughter just got accepted to Duke."

"Congratulations," Natasha said, trying to remember if she'd even known Patrice had a family.

The agent smiled, "Thank you. Now I understand I'm to interrogate someone?"

Natasha motioned behind her and the small group moved to the two men sitting on folding chairs, their hands on their knees but otherwise unbound. 

"My name is Agent Patrice," Patrice began with a warm smile, looking each man in the eye as if they were in an interview, "But you can call me Noah. Excuse me, are you done with this?"

A few techs looking up, startled at being addressed, and nodded in confusion. Natasha's stomach rolled as Patrice picked up the soiled, blood caked chair Wade had been sitting in, placing it right in front of the men before taking a seat. One of them looked like he was going to throw up.

"Now," Patrice began, leaning to brace his elbows on his knees and check his watch, "I've got... 40 minutes before I need to be home to tuck my kids in bed. And traffic out here is a bitch which means you've got something around 20 minutes to tell me exactly who you work for, who this gentleman is," he nudged the dead doctor lying next to his chair with his loafer, "and why on God's green earth you thought it was a good idea to abduct a child off the street."

There was silence.

"19 minutes."

They said nothing. Patrice sighed, "At the risk of sounding cliche, this is only going to get worse the longer you wait."

After another moment, Patrice got to his feet. The back of his blazer and jeans stuck momentarily to the chair, coming off with the sucking sound of velcro, "Okay," he said, sounding unsurprised and unperturbed, "We'll try something else."

 

+_+

 

_His head ached. His body was on fire. A breeze drifted over his face and warm hands pressed down. Down. Down into him. Into his heart. Into his stomach. Filleting his insides as a soothing voice spoke to him. Asked if he was awake. If he was alright. He couldn't even remember his own name. He didn't care. He drifted away before it could make any sense._

 

+_+

 

Clint wasn't allowed through the doors. The nurse blocked his way, giving him a placating gesture and a firm look before motioning for him to take a seat in the waiting area. He toyed with the idea of going back anyway, scrubbing in to watch and make sure they did _everything_ in their power to save him. It was the stupidest idea he'd had all night and he probably would have tried, except Tony Stark, of all people, stopped him.

"Yeah, yeah, I heard you the first time, no clearance, I got it."

Clint looked up from his hands, watching in astonishment as Stark all but blew pasted the staff trying to stop him, his pace casual, his eyes anything but.

"Agent Barton," Stark stopped right in front of Clint, holding out a hand for him to shake. Clint waved away the aides dogging Stark and stood, taking his hand, "Mr. Stark."

Tony took a seat, waving Clint to do the same, "Any word?"

"Nothing yet," Clint replied, sitting down again, feeling frayed and slightly confused.

Stark hummed, twiddling his thumbs, "So. A son, huh? You didn't strike me as the fatherly type."

Clint frowned, eyes straying from Tony to his own hands as they slowly slid past each other.

"How old is he?"

"16," Clint replied roughly, "He's a Junior at Midtown High."

"Good school," Tony went quiet for a moment, "He into sports?"

Clint couldn't help his huff of laughter, "No. I tried taking him to a Yankees game once--"

"That was your first mistake."

"Yeah," Clint bowed his head to hide his smile, "He likes roller coasters though. Hanging out with his friends... Russian soap operas..."

"Russian soap operas?" Tony asked incredulously.

"That was Natasha. I remember one time... I was working late. I came home three hours past his bedtime to the apartment completely lit up. When I got inside I found Wade... Natasha apparently taught him how to braid and he was standing behind the couch practicing on her hair while they both yelled at the TV. He must've been... God, he was only 10."

"Sounds like a good kid."

Clint nodded, his throat getting tight. He remembered so many nights like that. Just him and his son and his best friend... His best friend...

"He eats like a racehorse," Clint leaned back in his chair, physically pulling himself out of his thoughts, "We went out to dinner once when we were island hopping. Got this huge dish," he put his arms out in a circle, remembering the hot metal against his fingertips, the sun just below the horizon as his son laughed and Natasha smiled, "full of rice and lamb and toasted nuts. I swear if Nat and I hadn't stopped him he would've demolished the whole thing. Kid's an animal."

Tony snorted, "You should bring him around. When he's better. Sounds like a kid I'd like to meet."

"He's so special..." Clint felt his throat thicken and swallowed hard, "What are you doing here?"

Tony shrugged, poorly pulling off disinterest, "Figured I could help a friend. If he needed it."

Clint nodded, leaning forward to stare at the floor so if he did cry, if the tears finally did come, they at least wouldn't leave tracks.

 

+_+

 

Steve and Natasha arrived an hour into Wade's surgery. Clint looked terrible, pale and quiet even as Stark chattered along next to him, working something over on his tablet.

“Hey,” Natasha pressed a hand to Clint’s shoulder. He barely glanced up, just gave her hand a squeeze before continuing to stare unseeingly at the floor. Steve couldn’t imagine what he was going through.

“Any word?” he asked. Clint shook his head.

“Where have you two been?” Stark asked interestedly, glancing up from his screen to give Steve one of those looks he truly detested. He couldn’t decide whether it said “I already know what you were up to,” or “You can’t lie to me,” either way it was aggravating.

“Questioning suspects,” Steve replied, trying not to sound defensive. It was very hard to do around Tony.

“Uh huh,” Stark studied his tablet, fingers flying, “And did these suspects survive their questioning?”

Steve gritted his teeth as his mind flashed to the warehouse. Would he call that surviving? “They were still breathing when we left.”

“They were working for a man you hired during the attack,” Natasha said. Clint’s hunched form seemed to cave even farther into himself, “Phabian Malone. Do you know that name?”

Clint started to shake his head, then stopped, “He could be related to James Malone. I reached out to him.”

Natasha’s lips thinned, but she gave his shoulder another light squeeze, “Any reason why he’d come after you or Wade now?”

“I promised all of those guys a lot of money,” Clint sighed, burying his face in his hands, “He was probably there to collect.”

Steve stomach heaved. If those guys were expecting to make money with the way they’d worked Clint’s son over…

“Melinda and Jasper said they’d handle it personally,” Natasha broke through his thoughts, sitting in the chair next to Clint.

“Are they bringing him in?”

“If you want.”

Clint seemed to think it over, but before he could give an answer the doors they’d been facing pressed open and a very tired, very bloody doctor stepped out. Clint was instantly on his feet, eyes zeroing in on the woman as she stepped forward.

“How is he?” Clint asked.

“He’s in a very precarious situation at the moment,” she replied, “Right now he’s as stable as we can get him, but there’s almost too much damage to repair.”

Natasha reached out to Clint before he could more than slump, his face ashen, eyes glazed. He made some sort of aborted shake with his head, as if by doing so he could make it not true.

“There’s nothing you can do?” Steve asked, not wanting the answer. Clint seemed to slump further and Natasha wrapped an arm around his waist for support, stairing the doctor down.

“He’ll need at least three organ transplants that we can see so far, but right now his biggest problems are his liver and his heart. Apparently they were using some mixture of venom and adrenaline to keep him awake and the stress has really taken it’s tole. That on top of the lacerations...”

“So you need a liver,” Stark spoke up, “Hearts are harder to come by, I’ll get Pepper on it. Barton just needs to be tested to make sure he’s a match and we can get this show on the road.”

“I’m not a match,” Clint said distantly.

“What do you mean you’re not a match, you haven’t been tested yet,” Stark scoffed already buried back in his tablet.

“Stark’s right, Clint, you don’t know that for sure,” Steve encouraged.

“What about Nadia?” Natasha asked. Clint stared at her, seemingly not understanding for a moment.

“Who’s Nadia?” Steve asked.

“Wade’s mother,” Clint replied, something growing in his voice, “Could that work? Could she donate?”

“If she matched,” the doctor assented.

Clint’s mind seemed to be racing now, “She’s still outside Lock Haven I think.”

“I’ll make sure,” Natasha stepped out of Clint’s reach and left without another word.

“I seem to be missing something here,” Stark spoke up, looking irritated, “ _How_ do you know you’re not a match, again?”

“It’s well within Agent Barton’s rights--”

“Right, right, I know it’s well within his rights to blah blah blah, my question is _why_.”

Clint glared at Tony, who didn’t step down, “He’s your _son_. I’ve been sitting next to you for an hour and a half while you cried about this kid and now that you can actually _do something_ , you refuse. Why?”

“Back off, Stark,” Clint growled, face going scarlet.

“It’s a simple question.”

“Stark, leave him alone,” Steve broke in, pressing a hand to his shoulder. Tony brushed it off, looking livid.

“No, he owes me an answer.”

Clint’s jaw worked, but all he said was, “I don’t owe you shit,” before turning away and storming out. 

Steve glared at Stark, “Nice work.”

“He’s an idiot,” Stark spat, “It’s one test, you’d think he’d be able to bite the bullet--”

“Did you ever think he already took a test like that, Stark?” Steve cut in.

“He hasn’t,” he dismissed immediately, “I read his file.”

“Then maybe he wasn’t the one to take it,” Steve said evenly.

“What does that--” Stark cut himself off, a look of dawning horror crossing his face, “Oh.”

Steve couldn’t help his little twinge of satisfaction, “Maybe you should’ve thought of that before you blamed the guy for letting his son die.”

Steve nodded at the doctor then turned on his heel to hunt down Clint. The problem was, he didn’t know where to start. He spent a lot of his time wandering from floor to floor, keeping out of other agent’s way as they worked. Apparently one child’s life in the balance didn’t stop the world from turning. Many floors later, Steve was finally tipped off by a young man waving him down across the dark bull pin and pointing with his pen to one of the offices. Steve nodded his thanks before moving to the door.

“Clint?” he tapped softly. There was no answer. Steve tried the handle which turned easily and stepped inside. It was a nice office, tidy, with a big shelf full of books and papers behind the desk and a plant on a large filing cabinet over by the small window. Clint was leaning against the couch, his head buried in his hands as he shuddered for breath. Steve quietly took a seat next to him, letting Clint regain his composure before speaking, “Stark’s an ass.”

Clint scoffed, sniffing loudly, but not responding. Steve let the silence settle, glancing around the room, “Whose office is this?”

“Coulson’s,” Clint replied. 

Steve gave the space another look, trying to find hints of the man in it, “It’s nice.”

“It was better when he was here.”

Steve could only nod. He’d known Coulson for a few hours, Clint had obviously known him much longer, “You want to talk about it?”

“Nah,” Clint closed his eyes, resting his head on the seat cushion behind him, “Not right now.”

Steve nodded again, “I know it doesn’t mean much, but I’m sorry. For everything. No one deserves to go through what you’re going through.”

“I can’t donate to my son,” Clint responded dully.

“That’s not your fault,” Steve said.

“No I mean,” Clint seemed to have a hard time finding the words, “I can’t donate to my son because we’re not a match. At all.”

“I know,” Steve assured, “And that’s not--”

“No,” Clint shook his head, “No, I mean we don’t match. Biologically. We don’t match. He’s not my biological son. I’m sterile.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (don't hate me don't hate me don't hate me)


	24. To Heal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes I added more chapters. Yes it's because I love you. Yes this story is much longer than I thought. Yes I am not ashamed. ~

_The drive out of the city had taken longer than he’d wanted. By the time he hustled Wade out of the dreary afternoon, Clint was convinced_ They _had beaten him there. They had the place surrounded, and all They had to do was wait. He just wished he knew who They were. Everywhere he looked he thought he saw light suits and mirrored aviators. He gripped Wade’s hand, being careful not to hurt him, and moved with the crowd to the ticket counter. Rain pelted the wide windows around him, sounding like gunfire to his overtaxed ears._

_“Two please,” Clint told the teller._

_“One child and one adult?” the woman smiled kindly. Clint wished she wouldn’t, “Would your son like a sweetie?”_

_“Clint’s not my dad,” Wade’s words hit Clint like a bolt of lightning, shaking him to his core. He looked between the little boy and the woman’s confused expression, fighting down his panic as he said, “No, no, I’m his uncle. We’re meeting up with his mom.”_

_“We are?” Wade asked, excitedly pulling on Clint’s hand, “Is Baba gonna be there too?”_

_“Maybe, buddy,” Clint traded cash for tickets with the once again smiling teller and hustled them into the waiting area. The windows were bigger here, the rain louder._

_“Alright,” he took a cursory look around the room, moving them back into the crowd. Clint found a seat on the end of a bench and hefted Wade onto it, stooping down to his level, “Wade, we need to talk, okay? We need to talk like big kids, can you do that for me?”_

_Wade’s eyes went round and he straightened, nodding furiously, “Yes.”_

_“Okay,” Clint took a deep breath, staring at the ground for a moment to collect himself. He had no idea where to start, “That man you saw in the square, have you ever seen him before?”_

_“No,” Wade shook his head._

_Clint bit his lip, “Did he say anything to you?”_

_“He told me happy birthday.”_

_He nodded, thinking, reminding himself to take deep breaths, to not show fear, “Wade, do you want to go home?”_

_Wade screwed his face in confusion, “Why?”_

_“Do you miss your mom?” he tried again._

_“Um,” Wade fidgeted, seemingly thinking it over, before shrugging._

_Clint licked his lips, persisting, “I need a yes or no, buddy.”_

_“Are we gonna see her now?”_

_Clint felt a rock slowly form in his throat. He swallowed, “We can.”_

_Wade curled his hands together, “Is she gonna go away again?”_

_Clint opened his mouth, but for one terrifying moment, nothing came out, “I don’t know.”_

_Wade’s head drooped, his hands moving from each other to his jeans, “I don’t want her to go away…”_

_“I know buddy, I know,” Clint swept the little boy into his arms, burying him in a hug, “I’m sorry, this is very hard.”_

_Clint felt Wade’s tears break over his shoulder, but he didn’t move, keeping Wade there as long as he held on, burying his own head by the boy’s to gain his own composure._

_“I wanna stay with you,” Wade finally sniffed, pulling away, “I don’t wanna go away again.”_

_“Okay,” Clint nodded, his chest swimming with emotion as he blinked, checking the room again, “If you stay with me, though you can’t call me Clint anymore, alright buddy?”_

_Wade was blinking too, his face slightly ruddy from Clint’s rough jacket, “Why?”_

_And here was the part Clint had been dreading, “Because I’m not a good person,” he forced himself to say, wondering how exactly he was going to break murder to a child, “And the people I sometimes talk to aren’t good people either.”_

_“What did you do?” Wade asked immediately, eyes narrowing._

_“Some very bad things,” Clint responded stiltedly._

_Wade opened his mouth and Clint knew with every fiber of his being he was going to say something simple. Tell him to apologize or say he was sorry and all would be better, but instead Wade said, “It’s okay. Mommy says sometimes good people do bad things. And it’s not okay to be mean to people who are trying to be good.”_

_Clint blinked, “You’re mom taught you that?”_

_Wade nodded, “She said it’s why she left me with Baba so much. She wanted to be good.”_

_Clint felt his heart break, but smiled, “You’re mom’s a really smart woman.”_

_“I know,” Wade shrugged, “Baba says I got her brain and my daddy’s looks.”_

_Clint’s heart sank, “Did you ever meet your dad?”_

_“No,” Wade said with no real interest, picking at the corner of the bench_

_“What if… What if I was your dad?”_

_Wade looked up, face scrunching, “Why?”_

_Clint felt a familiar itch and scanned the room, before meeting Wade’s eye as he spoke. This conversation was too important to be distracted, “Because I want to protect you. And I can protect you better if you’re my son.”_

_“Oh, um,” Wade seemed to think it over, “Okay. You can if you want.”_

_“Okay,” Clint grasped Wade’s arms, commanding his full attention, swallowing around the giddiness crawling up his throat. He couldn’t tell if he was crashing or in shock, “We’re going to practice, buddy, alright? So who am I?”_

_“You’re my dad,” he replied haltingly._

_“Good,” Clint gave him an encouraging smile and a squeeze, “Again.”_

_“You’re my dad.”_

_“Again.”_

_“You’re my dad.”_

_“Again.”_

_Wade huffed in frustration, “Cliii--”_

_“No, no,” Clint quickly looked around the room, his heart jumping._

_“Oh,” Wade’s face went pink, “Dad.”_

_Clint was unable to completely stifle his laugh. He was definitely hysterical, “Okay, buddy just one more time. Who am I?”_

_“You’re my dad,” he said with feeling._

_Clint smiled, pulling Wade back to him even as his chest ached, “Thank you, buddy.”_

 

+_+

 

“You’re…”

Clint glanced up at Steve’s blank face, “Yeah.”

“Oh,” he didn’t seem to know what to do with the information, “Uh… I mean are you…?”

“Yeah, I’m sure,” Clint rubbed his face with his hands.

“How… um…”

“How do I know?” Clint couldn’t help smiling. Cap was just so _uncomfortable_ , “I tried to donate when I was younger.”

“Donate?”

Clint stared at Steve, wondering how much of his life had culminated in this moment, “Sperm, Cap. I tried to donate sperm.”

Steve’s face colored, but all he said was, “You can do that now?”

Clint snorted, “Some can.”

There was a moment of silence, then, “Does Wade know?”

“He knows I’m not his biological father,” Clint rested his head back against the couch.

“Does anyone else?”

“You,” Clint replied, “Nat. Fury, probably. Coulson knew.”

Steve nodded, contemplatively, “Stark’s still an ass.”

“I’m surprised he didn’t already figure it out,” Clint thought about it, “Then again I guess it’s not written down anywhere…”

“You two do look a lot alike...” Steve reasoned, trailing off, “Is… is that a rabbit?”

Clint looked at Steve, then crained his head to the pink monstrosity buried in the corner, “Oh yeah, Director Furry.”

Steve turned to him, true concern written all over his face, “I’m sorry?”

Before Clint could answer, Natasha pushed the door open, eyes hard as she glanced between them, “She’s in Hartford. You coming?”

“I’ll stay,” Clint felt his gut clench just at the thought of seeing Nadia again. And under these circumstances… he couldn’t allow himself to think it. 

Cap got to his feet, face set, “We’ll be back soon.”

Clint nodded, letting the door shut and the silence seep back into the room.

 

+_+

 

_It always started cold, so incredibly cold, then it warmed. Starting in his chest and spreading out, but never quite making it to his fingers. The heat would grow, and grow, and grow, turning sharp like needles and that’s when it would start. He knew that voice better than his own, he’d listened to it for so many years, “It’s okay, it’s almost over, you’re still alive, I’m here, I love you…”_

_The litany was never ending, and he knew it wasn’t true, but every time he heard it he clung to the words like they could keep him afloat._

_“Please,” he would pray, “Please, bring me home.”_

_“I will,” the voice would reply, “Soon.”_

 

+_+

 

“So.”

Natasha felt Cap’s glance more than saw it, “He told you.”

Steve’s grip on the wheel shifted minutely, “Yeah.”

“You’re taking it well.”

“It’s a strange situation,” Steve conceded, “But they’re a family. Who am I to judge?”

Natasha gave him a brief flash of a smile, “Smart man.”

“Who is this woman by the way?” Steve asked, taking the exit, “An ex-wife? Girlfriend?”

Natasha shrugged, “Neither of them talk about her. I know she used to be a fire-eater with Carson’s Circus. Now I believe she’s a stay at home mom.”

“Really?” It didn’t sound like a question when Steve spoke, “And she’s never once tried to find her son?”

“In her defence,” Natasha replied when they pulled in front of the beautifully restored brownstone, “Clint and Wade weren’t exactly in the country for most of Wade’s childhood.”

Steve made a noncommittal sound as Natasha knocked on the door. A dog barked in the background followed quickly by the sounds of children shrieking. Natasha and Steve shared a look before the door was pulled slightly open to show just the barest sliver of a woman’s face. It was startling to see Nadia Wilson in the flesh. As much as everyone claimed Wade looked like Clint, it was clear Wade was really a carbon copy of his mother. For some reason, this really annoyed Natasha.

“Yes?” she demanded, sounding stressed.

“Nadia Wilson?” Natasha asked.

Nadia stiffened, her eyes narrowing, “It’s Broom, actually. And before you ask, no I don’t want to sign your petition, no I don’t want to donate, and no I do not need to be saved. Please don’t come back.”

And with that she shut the door firmly in their faces. 

Steve’s eyebrows rose, “Nice dame.”

Natasha knocked again, harder this time, sending the dog back into fits and loud stomps in their direction. The door was wrenched open by a very tired looking business man who said patiently, “Look, I believe my wife already told you…”

He paused, seemingly seeing Steve and Natasha for the first time. Mostly Steve, “Do I know you?”

“We would like to speak to Mrs. Broom,” Steve replied, “If it’s not too much trouble.”

The man’s eyes widened, “Holy shit. Holy shit you’re Captain America.”

“If we could please speak to your wife, Mr. Broom,” Steve requested again, just this side of commanding.

Mr. Broom instantly nodded, “Of course, of course. Come in, I’ll go get her.”

“Thank you, but we’ll wait here,” Natasha said. Mr. Broom jerked, apparently seeing her for the first time. He blinked and nodded, completely forgetting to shut the door in his haste. When Nadia returned, she looked a little paler than the first time around. She shut the door solidly behind her before speaking, “What do you want?”

“Mrs. Broom, we have some information about your son,” Natasha said.

“My son is five,” she replied instantly.

Natasha felt her annoyance grow, “We have information about Wade Wilson,” she emphasised the name.

If Nadia had been pale before, she was ashen now, “What?”

“You’re son,” Natasha repeated slowly, maybe a little colder than was necessary.

Nadia’s hand fluttered to her mouth, “Wade?”

“You’re son has been severely injured,” Steve took over, stepping forward.

“Wh--” Nadia leaned against the door, her body shaking, “I don’t understand.”

“Wade needs help,” Steve said, “He’s been severely hurt and he may not survive. We’re looking for donors for him, but you’re his closest biological relative.”

“But...” Nadia seemed to be searching for something, “No, this isn’t right. No, no, he’s safe,” she nodded now, “He’s safe. Clint protected him, he’ll be fine.”

Steve looked as confused as Natasha felt, “Wade is not fine,” she told Nadia, keeping her voice firm, “He could die.”

“No,” Nadia shook her head more forcefully, “No, he can’t die. He can’t.”

“We need your help to make sure that doesn’t happen,” Steve said.

Nadia’s eye’s went wide, she shrank even closer to the door, her voice was so small when she spoke, “I thought this was all over… Clint was supposed to…”

Suddenly, something in Nadia’s eyes shifted. Her entire demeanor changed, sending Natasha a step back. She seemed like a different person as she straightened; meaner, rougher. This was the woman Clint knew, Natasha realized, this was Wade’s mother. And something entirely too familiar about her put Natasha on edge.

“I’ll be right back,” quickly Nadia stepped into the house and reappeared moments later with a coat and her purse, “Let’s go.”

 

+_+

 

Clint didn't know what to expect when Nadia stepped into the waiting room. Maybe anger or fear. Maybe she would scream at him, say he stole her child and take Wade away from him. Blame him. Say he hadn't looked hard enough for her, that she was just around the corner and if he'd just _stopped to think_...

He hadn't expected Nadia to blow past him, march straight up to the doctor and demand to have the tests done immediately. He didn’t expect her in mom jeans, sensible sneakers, and an ugly dark green coat. He didn’t know what he expected. More bruises maybe. Strung out or greasy or gone, completely dead behind glass eyes.

But no. She was fine. Angry, but fine.

“Nadia?” Clint asked carefully, approaching her like a bomb that hadn't gone off when it was supposed to.

She stiffened, snapping to face him. He withered under her stare.

“I left him with you for a reason,” she hissed, deadly quiet. Before Clint could respond she was ushered through the swinging doors and he was alone again. He felt like a hurricane was in his chest. Emotion bubbled up his throat like sea water, threatening to drown him. His breaths were coming in short shuddering gasps and he actively worked to deepen each one. He pressed every thought out of his mind a burried his fists in his eyes, working to cut out all light, all sound, everything. He needed to breath. He needed to sit down. He needed this to work.

_Please,_ he didn’t even notice Steve guiding him to a chair or Natasha taking a seat next to him, he wanted his son so God damn much, _Please let him be okay._

 

+_+

 

_His first breath felt like shrapnel tearing through his esophagus._

_His second felt like his lungs were ripping themselves apart._

_His third felt like dying, and he’d already done that once today._

“Holy shit… It worked…”

_Somehow, he wasn’t so sure._

 

+_+

 

“It didn’t work.”

Clint snapped to his feet, but Nadia didn’t even look at him as she brushed by, only turning around at the door to say, “Don’t ever come near me or my family again, Clint.”

Natasha got up and caught the door, following Nadia down the hall.

Clint just stared after them, feeling numb. It was over. There was nothing they could do. Steve pressed a hand to his back, but Clint brushed it away, turning back to the doctor who looked dead on her feet.

“I’m sorry, Agent Barton,” she said, “We’re out of options.”

“Stark?” Clint croaked.

The doctor shook her head, “We haven’t heard anything yet. For now he’s as stable as he’s going to get. We’ll wheel him to the ICU and you can meet him there.”

Clint nodded. The next several minutes felt like a dream. He didn’t remember walking to the ICU or finding Wade’s room. He just sat down in the chair brought to him and stared at the body of his son. His little boy. The thing he’d burn the world down for. His entire existence shattered, covered in gauze and padding, lying on a hospital bed while a machine breathed for him, another one circulating his blood, a third measuring his thin heartbeat. Never in his life had he hated a room more than he hated this one. 

He didn’t know how long it was before Fury came to visit. The man was a shadow against the wall, observing the heartbreaking scene before him and not saying a word.

“I want out,” Clint finally said, “This is it. I want out.”

“Okay,” and it was Fury’s complete lack of fight that truly brought home the situation. He was going to lose his son. He’d lost Phil. And now Wade. And he couldn’t take it anymore. He bawled his eyes out in the dark room, not daring to touch his son for fear of hurting him. Snot and tears ran down his red face unchecked, his ears and head hurt from the pressure, he was pretty sure he was drooling, but he could stop. He was going to lose everything. He _had_ lost everything.

He had nothing left to lose.

“I want to…”

Clint turned at Fury’s voice, having completely forgotten his presence.

“I have a proposition for you,” he started again, “It’s very dangerous. And it could harm more than heal him.”

Clint sniffed long and loud, scrubbing his face in his hands, “Will it kill him?”

“Maybe.”

“Has it killed anybody yet?”

Fury was quiet for a moment, “There’s only been one successful test run.”

“Out of?”

“Four.”

“What happened to the other three?”

Fury’s silence was defining. 

Clint looked at his son’s still form, “What are the odds Stark finds a heart in time.”

Again Fury didn’t answer.

Clint closed his eyes, there were no more tears left in him. 

“Fine,” he took a deep breath and got to his feet, “Save my son, Nick.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *sings we're all in this together with clapping two step*
> 
> All comments, questions, concerns, etc, loved and cherished for all eternity


	25. I Love You Too

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This winter kicked my ass guys. Thank you so much for sticking around, and any new readers, welcome! I promise I'm not as flighty as my updating schedule seems to make me and I am always and consistently working on this story. Love you all and enjoy!!

Clint wasn’t surprised to see Peter hanging around outside SHIELD. The kid was fidgeting, moving from foot to foot, back and forth in baggy jeans and a baggy sweatshirt Clint was sure he recognized as once being his own. Wade must have stolen it. He wondered how long ago.

“I want to see him,” Peter said forcefully.

Clint just stared, he felt too numb, “Why didn’t you come in earlier?”

Peter’s expression faltered, he shuffled again, “I didn’t think they’d let me.”

Clint looked back at the front desk where the security guard sat playing on his phone.

“Come with me,” he said, turning back and motioning Peter to follow him, “Hey, uh, Carl?”

The security guard looked up, eyeing Peter then looking at Clint, “Yes, sir?”

“This is Peter Parker,” Clint waved over his shoulder.

“Hello, Mr. Parker,” Carl nodded. Peter awkwardly nodded back, red creeping up his neck.

“He should be on Fury’s short list,” Clint added. He’d never actually checked, but he was almost positive it was the truth. Phil would’ve put him on with Wade. Phil always thought of things like that.

Blankly, and with all the enthusiasm of a damp napkin, Carl tapped on the monitor in front of him, “Yes sir. Have a good day Mr. Parker. Agent Barton.”

“Thank you,” Clint moved away from the desk to the first bank of elevators, Peter still trailing behind him.

“I’m on a list?” he asked nervously as the doors slid apart.

“We’re all on lists,” Clint replied obscurely, stepping in. Peter hesitated, but followed, keeping his back to the far wall. As they rode quietly to medical, he seemed to want to say something, but every time he opened his mouth he closed it without a word.

“Are you okay?” Clint asked. It was such a vague question. Clint felt like he should say more or do more or feel more. But all he could gather was static and grey.

Peter opened his mouth, then closed it.

Clint cast his mind, “Is this about the warehouse?” he finally asked, his gut churning at the image still burnt in his mind of Wade slumped and bloody.

“You just--” Peter finally began haltingly, “You just-- _killed_ him.”

Clint’s head snapped up and for one heart stopping moment, he thought Peter meant Wade. Then he remembered the doctor.

Clint couldn’t think of anything else to say except, “It’s what I do.”

Peter seemed to be stealing himself to keep talking, “But what about his family?”

“What about them?” Clint asked.

Peter just stared, his look something like growing horror, “You killed a man and you don’t care how that’s going to affect his family?”

Clint considered his answer before speaking, “What I did tonight,” he said carefully, “Is nothing more than I would have done for anyone I love. I can’t regret it, because it’s already done.”

“But you _killed him_!” Peter nearly shouted, “He was just doing his job!”

”And I was doing _my_ job,” Clint nearly snapped “Everyone has reasons for what they do, Peter,” the doors opened to the medical wing, but Clint didn’t move, “Not all of them are going to be good enough. Hey,” Clint caught Peter’s arm before he could exit, “Sometimes there’s no good and bad. Just people, okay?”

Peter pulled his arm from Clint’s grip and started down the hall. Steve was at the end, reading a magazine outside Wade’s room.

“I thought I told you to go home,” Steve reprimanded immediately, giving Peter a once over.

Clint ignored him, “Cap, this is Peter Parker, a good friend of Wade’s. Pete this is Steve Rogers.”

“Pleasure,” Steve smiled, clasping Peter’s hand.

“Yeah,” Peter seemed a little star struck, but shook himself out of it, “Is, uh… Is he…”

“He’s in a medically induced coma,” Clint told him, “They’re taking him to treatment tomorrow morning.”

Peter nodded, looking through the small window in the door, his face going pale.

“You can go in if you’d like,” Clint added.

Peter glanced at him warily, but nodded again, turning the handle and slipping into the room with a soft click.

“Is he Spider-Man?” Steve asked immediately.

Clint sighed, “I wish he wasn’t.”

Steve made a face, “I knew he was young, but I didn’t realize...”

Clint made a sound of assent, watching Peter stare at the body on the bed with such hopeless distress…

He had to turn away.

“Did Nat ever come back?” he asked.

Steve shook his head, “I haven’t seen her. But Agent Sitwell did stop by. Said you should call him when you’ve got the time.”

“I’ll do that, thanks.”

Then they sat in silence. It was a long time before Peter left the room.

 

+_+

 

Clint woke up on the couch again.

For a full minute he thought it hadn’t happened. It was all a dream and everything was fine. He’d just fallen asleep early and he’d walk into his room to Wade splayed haphazardly across the top of the sheets, snoring contentedly. And because he was dreaming, he added Phil in the kitchen, pouring himself another cup of coffee while he looked over his morning emails on his phone. He’d glance over the succulent to Clint and smile ruefully and say…

Clint got up and went to the bathroom, turning the water on as hot as he could. He stripped down but didn’t immediately get in, instead he took a seat on the tub and just sat. And thought. 

Fury had told him everything he could about the experimental treatment they were giving Wade. One survivor, four attempts. A twenty-five percent success rate. Twenty-five. He buried his face in his hands, letting the steam seep into his body.

He hadn’t asked how long the treatment would take. He hadn’t 

Clint turned off the water and went to find some clean clothes.

 

+_+

 

“I thought I said go home,” Steve sounded tired, but Clint barely paid attention.

“Did they take him yet?” he asked, looking through the small window to the dark room.

“Not yet, but a nurse just came by,” Steve replied getting to his feet, “I can go get her if you’d--”

“No, no, that’s fine, Steve, thanks,” Clint gave a half smile and ducked into the room. Steve caught the door and came in as well, standing to the side while Clint went to Wade. He pushed his son’s hair away from his swollen, blackened face, just looking at him. 

He was only 16.

The thought sent a new wave of cold through his stomach. What a life to live to be put in a hospital at 16. Clint looked around and hooked a nearby chair with his foot, pulling it under him. He rested his head next to Wade’s hip, never letting go of his hand. Just watching the machines keep his son alive.

“Oh, Agent Barton. Captain Rogers. How are we doing this morning?”

Clint turned to the smiling nurse with a small nod.

“We’re doing alright, Ma’am, thank you,” Steve replied.

“Are you moving him now?” Clint asked, quietly dreading the answer.

The nurse smiled again, this time kinder, “Yes, we’re going to be moving Wade up to surgery, then we’re moving him to a private ward where he’ll recuperate before his treatment.”

“Private ward?” Clint felt his chest constrict, “I wasn’t told about this.”

“It’s procedure,” the nurse explained gently, “Your son will be in a very delicate state after every treatment. He’ll have a rotation of nurses and doctors devoted solely to his case to give him constant monitoring.”

Clint wanted to protest, but the nurse cut him off, “Agent Barton, trust me when I say we all want Wade to get better. We will do everything we can to make it happen, but you have to trust us.”

Immediately Clint shut his mouth. Because that's what got him in this situation in the first place wasn't it? Lack of trust? Wade was his son, but every agent in SHIELD’s New York office watched him grow up. Even those just passing through at least knew his name. This place and these people were as much Wade’s as they were Clint’s and he _had_ to trust they'd protect him. They were already doing everything they could.

Clint finally nodded, but held onto his son’s hand until he was carted through the doors to surgery. Steve placed his hand on Clint’s shoulder and after a moment, pulled him away.

 

+_+

 

It was five weeks before Clint saw his son again. In that time he slept and ate. He filed paperwork he’d been putting off. He practiced on the range, he went on a training mission, he cleaned the apartment. He didn’t open Phil’s door. Every once in awhile Natasha would drop by. Or Steve. They would have dinner or watch TV or drop off things they’d “borrowed”. Clint appreciated their company, but…

He missed his son. He missed the days he had to drag Wade out of bed before noon to do his homework when he lived on base and catching him on the range with Jasper showing him the proper way to put his feet while he shot long distance. He remembered small ridiculous things like playing I Spy on a ferry from Los to Oia, and watching a terrible Russian film in a hotel somewhere outside Timisoara. 

He remembered holding Wade’s hand as they got off a plane, on US soil for the first time in seven years, and realizing Wade had spent most of his life no where near this country. He remembered Wade crawling into bed with him that first night, whispering into his hair that they would be alright and praying they would be. He remembered eating pizza with Wade on Phil’s couch a few days after he’d moved in, and laughing at another terrible Russian movie. Maybe the same one.

Then he remembered Phil. How he always walked in and toed his shoes off before the door was fully closed behind him. How he’d pull off his crisp tie like it offended him even when it had been a good day, and let out a sigh as if the world had been lifted off his shoulders. He remembered the mission after Stark, when Phil had walked in looking dazed and tired and all Clint had wanted to do was hold him. It made him feel sick just thinking about it. But he did. He missed Phil. Almost too much to bare. Some days it was just a steady ache and others… others it felt like an amputation. And with Wade… 

There were days Clint felt like he was dying. Like he was bleeding out with no way to stop it. Natasha seemed to know when those days would happen. She’d come over with bags of groceries and cook all day, everything from scratch; goulashes and briskets and stews, then Steve would show up, once even dragging Stark along, looking haggard and raw, but downing three plates of pasteles and rice with very little encouragement.

Clint was thankful for those days. He’d tell Natasha every time, but she’d only say, “Ne blagodari menya.”

_Don’t thank me._

And once, ya tozhe tebya lyublyu.

 

+_+

 

The first time he broke in, he made sure to stay outside the door, just to be safe. The second time the door was open and he could see a nurse manually taking his pulse, checking a machine, then her watch. The third and fourth time he was officially allowed to sit with him, but not touch. The fifth time he did anyway.

The sixth time there was already someone with Wade.

He was wearing SHIELD sweats, leaning heavily on a cane and the bed railing. He looked gaunt, and old, and tired, and so unreal. Clint stared at him from the door as he stared at his son, looking pensive and sad and so beautiful. He wasn’t sure what kind of sound he made, whether is was a sob or a moan or a choked syllable, but suddenly Phil was staring back, looking shocked and alarmed.

And It took all of Clint not to scream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Can I let you guys in on a little secret?)
> 
> (Okay ready?)
> 
> (This is the last sad chapter.)
> 
> comments, kudos, criticisms, etc all welcomed, read, reread, and rereread <3


	26. Age: 17, Of Happiness and All Its Alternatives

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh hi nice to see you! How you been? Yeah me too... Okay happy reading!

Phil couldn’t move. He watched, as if in slow motion as Clint’s hand covered his mouth in a white knuckled grip, his eyes blown wide, his skin losing all semblance of life. Phil heard the drop of his cane before he realized his was moving. He grabbed Clint by the shoulders and dragged him into a chair, his sore knees hitting the floor so he could watch Clint’s eyes watch his. Clint’s eyes that darted all over Phil’s face, catching every change since they’d last seen each other months ago. A life time, Phil could see, had taken place on Clint’s hands alone.

“Clint,” Phil tried to be soothing, tried to pull some authority into his words, but all he could say was, “Clint. Clint.”

Clint’s eyes were bright, his breathing was becoming ragged, but he seemed unable to move his hand from his face. Phil touched Clint’s fingers, but Clint flinched at the contact. Phil immediately pulled back, but faster than he could blink Clint’s free hand had a vice like grip on his arm and Phil was reminded of a time Clint couldn’t breath, of blown pupils and choked gasps and his heart hammering in his throat, of holding this man’s hand while he slept and wishing it could be forever.

Slowly he pulled Clint from his wrist, twining their fingers together, “I’m right here,” he babbled, feeling reckless and cornered and fit to burst, his lungs too tight and his heart too big, “I’m right here, see? I’m right here. You see me, it’s real, I promise. Clint, breath, please you’re turning purple.”

Finally Clint let go of his mouth, sucking in a great lungful of air, as if he hadn’t taken a breath in months. Phil wanted to kiss him. So bad. He could feel himself leaning forward and forced himself back, instead pressing his cheek to the back of Clint’s hand. He wasn’t sure if it was better or worse. But slowly he felt Clint’s fingers in his hair, shaking as they moved past his ear and to his jaw. Phil let him pull his face up and watched with some apprehension the emotions flit over Clint’s face, too fast yet completely clear.

“You’re dead,” he finally rasped.

Phil’s heart sank, “I’m sorry,” he said.

Clint shook his head, never breaking eye contact. Then he was hugging Phil’s neck like a child, his face buried in Phil’s collar. The change was so surprising, Phil almost lost his balance, but the chair made an undignified honk as it was roughly shoved across the floor and Clint was on his knees with Phil, nearly holding him up with the force of his hug. Phil didn’t even hesitate to cling back, trying to hold on to Clint as fiercely as he could. He felt Clint begin to shake and just held on tighter.

“I should kill you,” Clint sobbed.

Phil couldn’t help a laugh, “I wouldn’t blame you.”

“You fucking died you asshole.”

“I know,” Phil felt like his chest was going to collapse his heart was beating so fast, but still he held on, “I’m sorry.”

“God,” Clint shuddered into Phil’s shoulder, his arms loosening just enough to relieve the pressure behind Phil’s ribs, “I missed you so _fucking_ much.”

“I missed you too,” Phil felt a lump grow in his throat, “You… Clint, I’m sorry, but can we get up?”

“What? Oh, _shit_ ,” Clint was on his feet, dragging Phil with him, looking worried and a little crazed, “You’re chest, _fuck_ I didn’t think--”

“I’m fine,” Phil insisted, but didn’t push Clint away when he helped him to the seat Clint had just vacated.

“You’re not _fine_ ,” Clint snapped, “You shouldn’t even be moving around.”

“How am I going to keep the nurses on their toes if they don’t lose me every once in awhile?” Phil asked, jokingly.

Clint wasn’t impressed, in fact he finally looked angry, “Your health isn’t a joke, Phil.”

“Everything’s a joke when you’re dying,” Phil replied without thinking.

Clint’s face lost all the color it had left, “You’re dying?”

“No!” Phil almost shot out of his seat to comfort Clint, “No, no, I’m not dying. I’m sorry that was a bad joke I only meant--”

The tension was palpable in the room, with Clint’s shining eyes and broken face and Phil’s idiot mouth say things all wrong--

There was a smack from the door and Clint jumped, standing defensively between Phil and the nurse trying to catch his breath. He startled, looking like a deer in headlights as he gawked from Clint to Phil to Wade and back to Clint, then Phil again.

“I should go tell Fury,” he finally said. The feeling in the room snapped like a rubber band.

“You should go tell Fury,” Phil agreed.

The nurse nodded, white as a sheet, and shot off again. Phil got up and hobbled back to his cane, squatting down to catch it between his fingers. He still couldn’t quite bend over, and the knowledge made him feel unbearably old. When he got back to his feet, Clint was staring at him. And from the distance, with Wade’s bed between them, it looked like he was seeing Phil in a new light.

“I missed you,” Clint said, “Every day. For a long time.”

Phil’s heart wrenched at the words, but he swallowed and spoke slowly, adding weight he hoped Clint understood, “I missed you too, Clint.”

Clint’s gaze was steady, still pale and still bright, his lips parted and for a moment, Phil feared his next words, “I can’t lose you again.”

“I’m not--”

“No,” Clint cut harshly, “Don’t say you’re not going anywhere. You can’t promise that.”

“Clint--”

“I’m tired of losing people. I lost my parents and my brother and Nat and you--”

“Clint--”

“And now I might… I might lose…” his words faltered as he stared at the bed and Phil wanted to hold him so bad in that moment, “I can’t lose him Phil. He’s everything.”

“I know,” Phil said gently, wishing he could move closer, wishing he could touch Clint… But he felt miles away and Phil didn’t know how to bridge the gap. 

“I can’t lose you either,” Clint’s voice had gone rough as he watched Wade’s unmoving feet, “I fall apart without you by my side. He’s here because I couldn’t control myself. He got in trouble and I just… I…”

This time Phil didn’t respond, only listened and held himself very, very still.

“I lost it,” Clint finished quietly. And it looked like he was finally out of words. He placed a hand on Wade’s ankle, gently holding it with gauze, wrap, and thin sheets keeping them separate. 

Something about that made Phil’s chest ache and he heard himself say, “He’ll be okay.”

Clint didn’t respond. Phil didn’t expect him to.

 

+_+

 

Phil wasn’t expecting this to be an easy transition. By the time Fury came down, Clint was long gone, but Phil was still in Wade’s room.

“You couldn’t stay away,” Fury said.

Phil shrugged, “You didn’t ask.”

“I distinctly remember telling you to stay in bed.”

Phil shrugged again, “That was last week.”

“It didn’t have a time limit.”

Phil didn’t answer, only watched Wade’s monitors, “How’s he doing?”

“Fine,” Fury said, “He has a long recovery ahead of him, but so far so good.”

“Good,” Phil finally looked at his oldest friend with a grin, “So what are you telling the Avengers?”

 

+_+

 

“I’m sorry did you just say Phil Coulson is alive?” Tony asked in that interested way that meant there were going to be explosions in the near future. Literal explosions. With lots of boom.

“I did,” Fury said impassively, “He’s not quite healed enough to have visitors, but he is alive.”

“You said he was dead,” Steve had that lockjaw look he got when he knew he wasn’t going to get a satisfactory answer, “You called it.”

Fury didn’t disappoint, “The medics called it. I wanted a second opinion.”

Banner scoffed, caught somewhere between amused and monumentally pissed. Clint didn’t say anything. Natasha noticed him not say anything. She pressed the toe of her boot into his instep. He glanced up then shook his head. It was very telling.

When she looked back at Fury, who was getting his ass handed to him by a billionaire and America’s greatest hero, he looked relaxed, unimpressed, even bored.

That was very telling too.

 

+_+

 

Natasha was the first to find him. He cracked an eye at her standing in the doorway, “You can come in if you’d like.”

She did step closer, but not by much. Her face was a total mask, “You look thinner.”

“New diet,” Phil replied lightly.

Natasha punched him hard in the arm. Phil yelped, jumping half out of the bed and pulling painfully at the tubes in his arm, “Jesus, Nat!”

“That’s for joking,” she reprimanded, “Now get in the bed before I extend your stay.”

Wearily he complied, feeling both pleased she was worried and nervous she would strike again. He rubbed his shoulder lightly as he settled back against his pillows.

Natasha rolled her eyes, taking a seat at the edge of his bed, “I barely tapped you.”

“Definitely felt like more than a tap.”

“You’re just soft from sitting in bed all day,” She dismissed.

Phil smiled, “I missed you too.”

His next visitor, a few days later, was Banner, looking nervous and twitchy and annoyed, his arms crossing his chest and his lips in a firm line.

“Dr. Banner,” Phil nodded, continuing to swing his legs over the side of the bed to stand, leaning heavily on his cane, “Good timing, I was just about to take a walk. Mind causing a distraction?”

Banner’s eyebrows shot up, now worried, “A little.”

In the end Phil convinced him to bump into a nurse carrying a bunch of files and they snuck into the break room to steal a few snack bars and sodas. Altogether a pleasing afternoon.

Tony shot in like a man on fire. Phil was less surprised by this than by Steve Rogers trailing after him.

“Agent,” Tony said stiffly, snatching Phil’s file from the end of his bed.

“Stark,” Phil’s heart was racing, “Captain.”

“Agent Coulson,” Steve Rogers nodded from the door, “I hear you’re moving around.”

“A little here and there,” Phil replied, shrugging a shoulder. He felt like an alien in his own skin. But he wasn’t sure that was unusual after three months or so in a hospital, regardless of all childhood heroes currently present, “How’s SHIELD treating you?”

Tony snorted, not looking up from the papers in front of him, “After we burn it to the ground?”

Phil gave Tony a hard look, “Can you even understand what you’re reading?”

Tony glared at him, “Ye of little faith.”

“Then by all means, explain it to me,” Phil settled back expectantly.

Tony’s eyes narrowed, then he dropped the charts where he’d found them, “You lived, you died, you lived again. The end.”

Phil snorted, “Truly poetic.”

“What Stark means to say,” Steve gave Tony a reproachful look, “Is he’s happy you’re okay. And I am too.”

“Uh, that’s not what Stark means to say,” Tony interjected, “Stark means to say if you’re going to die, do it with a little more dignity. Preferably not by a guy wearing antlers.”

“ _Tony_ ,” Steve’s face flushed with shock.

“I think that was a one time deal,” Phil spoke up, “Next time I promise I’ll slip and fall in the shower.”

Something in Tony’s shoulders loosened and he shrugged, “That’s all I ask.”

 

+_+

 

Wade was still relatively off limits on most days. Clint would visit him, either standing outside his room, or sitting by his bed, but never touching. Wade himself wasn’t looking much better. He was pale most days, his birthmark looking stark, almost purple in comparison. Most of his skin was striped and gnarled from surgeries and… well. 

The surgeons had shaved his head to sew together parts of his scalp, the swelling around his left eye had gone down immensely, but the rest of him still was a mess of purple, green and fading red. His bandages were coming off though, slowly but surely. Most of his nails had grown back, lumpy and thick, but there. His right arm up to his shoulder was still encased, and his legs from knee to toe were wrapped tight as well as half his left thigh. There wasn’t enough skin undamaged to cover the missing portions and that, from what Phil could uncover, was part of the reason he was going through these treatments.

Phil didn’t know how the procedure worked, only his personal results: a heart regrown, a lung repaired, and a knot of scar tissue so dense the doctor had remarked more than once that they can remove some if it was too uncomfortable. It wasn’t too uncomfortable. He actually kind of liked it in a sick way. Proof of life, maybe. He wondered if Wade would see it that way.

He thought on the idea a lot while he watched Wade, keeping an eye on him when Clint wasn’t there. Occasionally they ran into each other, but Phil would quickly leave with a nod, finding somewhere else to be in the interim. But one day, a few weeks after that first meeting, Clint stopped him.

“Phil,” Clint called as he’d turned to leave.

Phil turned back, looking at Clint, trying to keep his look expectant, not hopeful. Clint motioned to an empty chair by the window, “You want to sit down?”

After a moment’s hesitation, Phil nodded, pulling the seat from the wall and resting his cain between his knees.

It was a moment before Phil could speak, “How are you?”

“Better,” Clint said, taking a deep breath, “They say he’s responding well to… whatever they’re doing to him. Said in another week or so they’ll try to wake him up.”

Phil couldn’t stop his smile, “That’s great news.”

Clint nodded, still looking a little grim, “Stark asked me to move into the tower.”

“Oh?” Phil had already heard, but having Clint talk to him about something, anything other than the horrors of the last few months had him feigning innocence.

Clint nodded again, slouching a little in his chair, hands clasped loosely, “But I don’t know. I kinda like where I am.”

“Oh,” Phil tried to keep his disappointment out of his voice, “Where’s that?”

A blush flooded Clint’s cheeks, but his expression never wavered, “Small place over in Queens. Friend of mine let’s me stay on his couch over there.”

Phil’s heart did a weird thing then. Like gymnastics: it sunk, stopped, thumped painfully, then lept to his throat for an admirable dance routine.

“Well that’s not gonna last,” Phil finally managed to say indignantly.

Clint’s face morphed into blank resignation, staring somewhere near Wade’s shin. He was probably already mentally packing, “You don’t think so?”

“I hear your friend is moving. Fancier digs in Midtown. You should probably talk to him about it.”

Clint’s head snapped up, lips slightly parted in amazement.

“Well,” Clint finally gulped, looking back straight ahead, “I guess I should make other arrangements.”

“I’d say take Stark’s offer,” Phil commented, bumping his knee against Clint’s, “Nicer place. Better neighbors.”

Clint nodded, his face fighting to stay neutral, “Can’t hurt.”

Phil nodded, taking in a deep breath and knocked Clint’s knee once more, “Can’t hurt.”

 

+_+

 

He felt dead. Well. Okay, so dead was a weird way to say it. Wade didn’t know what it felt like to be _dead_ exactly, but if he did, this is what he figured it would be like.

Not quiet, basically.

What you thought death was quiet? No, no, no, death was screaming. A horrible grind of metal and bone and icy sharp pain from everywhere and nowhere. From the inside out, like another him clawing through his chest. Then there would be too much, so much it turned into a constant low level hum radiating all over. Those times it almost felt good, like a relief. Then the cold would fold over him again, starting in toes or his chest or the base of his skull. And then it would start all over. The screaming. The bone. The metal. It would grow and grow and grow and then suddenly---

Silence.

And a voice, exactly and nothing like his own saying... 

_”Well that won’t do.”_

Wade shot up like he’d been electrocuted. There was something stopping him from breathing, he could hear alarms sounding, feel wires and heavy blankets and all sorts of bullshit all over him and the voice chuckled, and he felt it leave his throat.

“Wade!” An arm pressed him down, back to the sheets and suddenly he had a face full of Dad, worried and pale. But smiling, which was odd because there was something down Wade’s throat and his father should not be smiling about that.

“Wade, it’s okay buddy, it’s okay, you’re safe, I’ve got you, lie down,” his father pressed harder and Wade fought him because _there is something down his throat and he can’t breath God dammit._

 _God dammit,_ the voice mimicked.

“Wade, _stop_ ,” Clint shoved him hard, down, knocking what little air he had back out of him and suddenly there were more people, with lights this time, asking him questions.

“Wade, can you hear me? We’re going to take the tube out.”

Well wasn’t that the best news he’d heard all day. He held still, heart pounding as they removed a fucking garden hose from his esophagus. Then he felt really light headed and everything went fuzzy and that was a lot better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ONE MORE ONE MORE ONE MORE!!!
> 
> Questions, Concerns, Comments, Kudos, [Alternate Form of Communicado](https://boomsnapwhist.tumblr.com), Cheers :)


	27. Climbin' On

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lolololololololo

Philip James Coulson, recently dead, currently living, was discharged on a blustery Thursday afternoon just before rush hour. Clint was there to see him out. The walk to the parking garage was quiet. Phil didn’t have anything but the suit Clint had brought him, now a little ill fitting on his thinner frame. Clint opened the passenger side door of a SHIELD issue SUV, helping Phil in without actually looking like he was helping, and jogged around to the other side. The drive was just as quiet as the walk and Phil didn’t know how to break the tension. He wasn’t sure there even _was_ tension. Maybe the feeling was all in his head.

“Where are we going?” he finally asked.

“Home,” Clint replied. Phil didn’t know where that was. Not until they pulled into the parking garage of Stark Tower, now Avengers Tower. 

_Home_ , Phil thought, turning the word over in his mind until the doors opened on a hall much nicer than many hotels Phil had stayed in. He whistled, taking it all in, “Stark pulled out all the stops, huh?”

“Wait til you see your place,” Clint said, walking up the hall.

And Clint was right. Phil was impressed. Compared to the rest of the space Phil had seen the rooms were cozy. There was wood and carpet, warm tones on the walls, a large leather sectional facing a large TV over an electric fireplace… Phil hummed, looking through the other rooms: a small kitchen painted yellow, just as warm, just as inviting, a bedroom in grey, and bathroom in soft blues. It was all very quaint, very simple. 

“It’s not really…” Phil tried to find the word when he came back into the living room where Clint stood waiting, “Me.”

“You don’t think so?” Clint asked, looking around the space himself, “I think it looks exactly like you.”

“Well yes, it’s everything I like,” Phil stood next to his friend, taking it all in, “But it feels… steril. Kinda empty.”

“You could always fill it with things,” Clint replied, bemused, “I could bring you your plant.”

“Hm,” Phil said again, crossing his arms, “Where do you live?”

“Down the hall,” Clint jerked his head in the direction, “I’ll show you, come on.”

Phil followed Clint down one door, watched him press his hand above the lock and push, “You have clearance to get in, by the way,” he said, swinging the door wide to let Phil in. And the space…

“Wow,” it was all Phil could think to say.

“Yeah,” Clint sighed, looking into the rafters, “No stops.”

“I’ll bet,” Phil craned his head, trying to get a better look, “Did he put a rope course in your ceiling?”

“I told him not to,” Clint looked a little embarrassed, “But he refused to hear it after he found my old circus memorabilia.”

Phil snorted, looking back at his friend, “You don’t like it?”

“No, it’s fine,” Clint shrugged, scuffing his boot on the smooth tiled entry, “It’s just… Big. My first space.”

“Hm,” Phil felt the sound become a mantra, “Not really your style?”

“Honestly?” Clint gave his shoulder a small bump, “I liked your old place better. Cozier.”

“Lower ceilings.”

“Still pretty high.”

“Not this high.”

Clint snorted, “No, not this high.”

Phil smiled, looking out the wall of windows across from them, “Do I have this view?”

“Yeah,” Clint said quietly. Phil glanced over, but Clint looked away before he could see his face.

“Where is everyone?” Phil finally asked, “I thought I’d be bombarded.”

“They’re down stairs in the common area. I wasn’t sure you’d want to see everyone right away.”

“I think I’m okay to see them for a moment,” Phil smiled, “Come on, show me the rest.”

Clint lead the way back down the hall, pointing out places of interest as they went, “Tony’s shop, Bruce’s lab,” Clint watched the numbers, listing off their corresponding significance while Phil watched him, “Gym and Medical, Tower Command, and this,” Clint motioned as the elevator doors opened, “is the common area.”

“Agent!” Tony called, raising a glass in Phil’s direction from across the room, “Welcome back! How was Hell? _Ouch!_ ”

Steve grinned from next to Tony apologetically, but Phil took it in stride.

“A little chilly, actually,” he said, nodding at Steve, “Captain.”

“Agent Coulson,” Steve replied.

Tony snorted into his glass, shying away when Steve shot him a look.

“Where’s everyone else?” Clint asked.

“I’m here,” a hand appeared over the couch, waving awkwardly before flopping back down, “Sorry, Phil, I’d move but I can’t.” 

Tony snorted louder. Natasha, who sat in the corner of the couch Bruce was face down on, turned a page of the book she was reading. From his angle it looked like a very old copy of Anna Karenina in its original Russian.

“Long night?” Phil asked, peeking over to see Bruce in rumpled clothes face down on the couch. He still smelled like alcohol.

“Remind me not to drink with these people _ever_.”

“He’s been lying there since last night,” Natasha said, not looking up from her book. It really was Anna Karenina.

“Would you like help up?” Steve called.

“No, no,” Bruce flapped his hand again, “Here’s as good as any place to die.”

“Truer words,” Tony raised his glass.

Phil huffed a laugh, standing straight again, warmth growing behind his ribs. He glanced at Clint again and this time Clint didn’t look away.

“Tired yet?” he asked.

Phil shrugged slightly, already feeling stiff, but deciding to ignore it for the time being, “I could use some food.”

“Food,” Bruce stirred from the couch, shakily getting to his feet, “Yes. Indian food.”

“That doesn’t sound like a bad idea,” Steve said, looking at Stark who already had his phone out to order.

It felt oddly intimate when the food arrived and they all crowded around the table to eat. It was clear from the beginning Phil was the outsider; everyone passed among themselves, keeping some dishes close, or stealing pieces from others. Clint piled his plate high then switched it with Phil’s and started again. It was all his favorites and Phil felt the warmth grow as he started eating. The conversation rambled, sliding from topic to topic and never staying anywhere long. No one asked about Phil though Bruce did at one point quietly ask after Wade. It felt familial and comforting in a way Phil hadn’t experienced since…

Since…

“You okay?” Clint asked under the general conversation.

Phil nodded, “I just realized I haven’t been this comfortable in a long time.”

Clint nodded in understanding, his face muted, “Do you want to head out?”

After another pause Phil nodded, picking up his plate. The table immediately booed him down, “Leave it, leave it,” Stark called, “So help me God, Agent, if you so much as lift a fing--”

“We’ve got the washing up, fellas,” Steve smiled, his hand firmly planted over Stark’s mouth, “Just leave it on the table.”

Phil tried to keep his face neutral, “Thank you. Good night, everyone.”

A chorus of good nights followed them out. Phil didn’t say anything until the door was closed, but as soon as it was he turned on Clint, “So. Rogers and Stark.”

“Not yet, thank God,” Clint replied immediately, keeping his face forward, a slight blush creeping across his cheek, “But I can’t imagine it’ll be much longer.”

Phil snorted, facing the doors again, “Didn’t see that coming.”

Clint huffed an assent as the doors opened, “Really? He’s exactly Cap’s type.”

“What?” Phil paused outside his door, so Clint opened it for him, ushering him inside.

“Yeah, I mean Peggy Carter, James Barnes…” Clint plopped on the couch and turned on the TV as Phil took a seat gingerly beside him, “Obviously he’s got a thing for headstrong brunettes. Didn’t you read that paper Wade wrote last year?”

“Technically Barnes is unconfirmed,” Phil felt he should point out.

Clint actually laughed at that, “We can confirm it now.”

Phil felt a blush rise at the very idea of asking Steve Rogers about his sex life, “Something tells me he’s not one to kiss and tell.”

“Hm,” Clint settled deeper into the couch, flipping to an old episode of House Hunters, “You know, I think I like your place better than mine.”

“It’s a little stuffy, I think,” Phil said, looking around.

“I’ll talk to Stark, maybe we can open up a few walls.”

“But you don’t like wide open spaces.”

Clint gave him a confused look, “Why does that matter?”

“Well,” Phil motioned between them and the TV, his blush returning, “I kinda assumed you’d be coming over every once in awhile. Was I wrong?”

“No,” Clint said a little too quickly, then, “I mean yeah of course I’ll come over. I just figured you’d be sick of me underfoot all the time.”

Phil smiled giving his shoulder a nudge as he settled in to watch the end of the episode, “I’ll never be sick of you.”

“Promise?”

Phil felt his heart thump hard under his sternum. He looked over to Clint, half curled on the couch only centimeters away and suddenly he felt brave. He reached for Clint’s hand, lacing their fingers together and kissing the back of his knuckles, “Promise.”

Clint’s hold tightened, and he didn’t let go until well into the night.

 

+_+

 

Wade was not dead. He knew he wasn’t dead because there was someone in the seat next to him. He could hear them breathing. It was nice breathing. Nice and even. Wade wished his breathing was even. Or nice. He felt like he was still breathing through a tube. Actually the oxygen mask was getting uncomfortable. He reached up with a heavy hand and brushed it clumsily to the side, taking a short breath of over processed hospital air. He was very familiar with that air.

“Wade?”

Wade didn’t open his eyes, but smiled, “Yes?”

There was silence, then shifting, “Can you open your eyes?”

“No,” he replied, turning his head.

“Is something wrong with them?”

His smile grew, “No.”

The silence was a little longer this time, “Then what’s stopping you?”

“You,” Wade shifted, turning back to the ceiling, “I want you to really be there.”

A hand pressed on Wade’s wrist, “Of course I’m here. Where else would I be?”

Wade thought about the voice. About the empty darkness and the people who weren’t really there. The doctor still trying to put him back together in a warehouse, even though he was about as put together as he was going to get. _Too deep._

Wade had to agree.

“I don’t know,” he finally said, opening his eyes and looking at Peter, “Hi.”

“Hi,” Peter replied, keeping his hand on Wade’s wrist, “You know you scared the shit out of me, right?”

“Yeah,” Wade was too tired to be pithy, “Sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry,” Peter shook his head and Wade realized he was crying, “Don’t apologize for what they did to you.”

What they did to him.

“So how bad is it?” Wade asked, trying to keep his tone light, “You think I still got a chance at Teen Miss America?”

Peter barked a laugh, but was no longer looking at him. Wade had an idea how bad it was. He could see his arms after all. And his legs. Between doses he would run his forefinger over his thumb and wonder if he’d ever feel his hands again. He figured that was also too dark to talk about and the voice agreed.

“How about we go for Miss Midtown High and work up from there,” Peter finally said.

Wade immediately dismissed him with a wave, “Nah, MJ’s got that in the bag, I’ll have no chance.”

Peter laughed again and the sound lightened Wade’s heart, “So how’s school?”

Peter shrugged. His finger slid over Wade’s pulse and dimly Wade wondered if he was doing it on purpose.

“S’fine,” he said, “Boring, you know. School.”

“I miss it,” Wade said, watching Peter, “It was the one place I felt like everyone else. Normal, you know?”

“You were never normal,” Peter said with small smile, “You’re like, the least normal person I’ve ever met.”

“Yeah well,” Wade turned his head into his pillow, closing his eyes again, his heart aching, “A guy can dream.”

Wade felt Peter press his forehead into his palm, his fingers still wrapped around his wrist, “Some people just aren’t meant to be normal.”

“People like me?” Wade felt a tear fall down his face, but didn’t move, didn’t bring attention to it. His voice was still steady. The weight of Peter’s head was still a distant pressure on his palm. His breathing was still even.

“People like us,” Wade felt the weight shift and a finger brush his cheek, “Don’t forget I’m with you, dude.”

“I know,” Wade smiled, his eyes closed, basking in the feeling of his best friend holding him down, “I know.”

+_+

 

When Wade woke up again, his dad was there, looking bleary. He was reading a book, one Wade recognized, “Is that my AP English book?”

His dad looked up, a small smile breaking across his face before he looked at the cover, “I’ve never read Wuthering Heights.”

“It’s terrible,” Wade warned him, “Everyone’s a jerk and it’s always raining.”

“I can relate,” Clint mused, setting the book aside and leaning forward, “How are you feeling?”

Wade thought about it, wiggling his fingers and toes, “Better.”

“Good,” his father nodded, “Good. I wanted to talk to you about some things, if that’s alright?”

Wade felt his heart sink, “It can’t be worse than Jersey Shore being canceled. Lay it on me, Pops.”

His father smiled again, this time a little weaker, “I wanted to talk… I wanted to say I’m sorry.”

“Dad--”

“No, please,” Clint reached forward, taking his hand, “I did everything wrong that night. Everything--”

“I did too!” Wade jumped in, squeezing his father’s hand, “I know you were trying to protect me, I know I wasn’t supposed to go out--”

“But I shouldn’t have jumped you,” Clint charged through, “Wade, listen to me. I never should have hit you. Nothing you ever do should warrant that kind of violence--”

“Okay, but in your defence I did hit you back--”

“ _Wade._ ”

Wade stilled, listening to his father.

“ _I’m sorry_ ” he said again, his eyes never leaving Wade’s, “What I did was unacceptable and inexcusable. I need you to understand that.”

Wade felt his throat dry. He licked his lips and nodded, “I’m sorry for disobeying you.”

A small smile crept onto his father’s face, “You wouldn’t be my son if you didn’t break the rules a little. I’m sorry I kept forgetting that. I’m sorry I treated you like the person I wanted you to be instead of the person you are.”

“Dad,” Wade rolled his eyes, “All you ever wanted was to keep me safe. I’m the one who broke your trust, alright?”

Clint looked down at Wade’s hand with a sigh, “I understand why you did. I didn’t raise you to do nothing when you could do something, but…” Clint paused, collecting his thoughts, “My greatest mission… My only goal when you came into my life was to protect you. I knew from the very beginning I couldn’t do that forever, but I promised myself I would try for as long as I could. And then we came here, and we built this family… I thought our lives were going to be so different. That I could give you this perfect life with a real family and a real home, no more cramped apartments, no more leaving in the middle of the night… I wanted that for you so bad…”

“I know,” Wade said, which sent his father’s head up, their eyes to meet, “I know that’s what you wanted. That’s what I thought I wanted too. But you said it: we built a family _here_. And I want to stay with my family. I thought… I thought I could be normal, but I’m not. And that’s not your fault. I don’t think I ever was going to be normal.”

Suddenly, Wade recognized that feeling he’d had when he’d told Peter the exact opposite.

_”You were never normal.”_

None of them were. And Wade figured that wasn’t such a bad thing. In fact, he kinda liked the idea.

“I want to talk to you about something, though,” Wade added, hesitantly.

“What is it, buddy?” His father asked.

Wade’s stomach churned, but he took a breath anyway, “I want to join SHIELD.”

Wade felt his father stiffen more than saw it, so he pressed on, “I’ve been thinking about it for a while, and I think it’s the best place for me. I can get my GED and go through basic… I mean I already know a lot just from, you know, being around all of it, and growing up with you and Aunt Tasha and Coulson--”

“Stop,” Clint raised his hand, looking away, but still holding Wade’s fingers, “I can’t do this right now.”

Wade’s heart sank.

“I’m not saying no,” Clint said, “But this is too much for me to process right now.”

“Okay,” Wade still felt on edge, but knowing his father wasn’t outright banning him did make him feel better.

Clint stood and leaned over, giving Wade a kiss on his forehead, and a long gentle hug before pulling away, “I want you to think long and hard about this decision. Come up with a good argument and we’ll talk it over tomorrow.”

“Okay,” Wade nodded vigorously at that, his heart thudding hard in his chest, “I love you, Dad.”

“I love you too, buddy,” Clint gave him another kiss on the top of his head before leaving.

 

+_+

 

It took Wade two months to get back on his feet, and in that time he’d come up with a variety of reasons why he should join SHIELD. The problem, he found pretty early, was getting people to listen to him.

“I want to do something with my life,” he huffed, straining on the bars as he slowly shuffled toward Natasha.

“Then go to college,” she dismissed, “Four more steps.”

“You said that four steps ago!” he said exasperatedly.

She wasn’t amused, “Four more steps.”

“I can--” Wade blew out a long breath, pushing the measly five pound weights up and over his shoulders with an amazing amount of effort, “I can do good here Sitwell, I know I can--”

“Stop talking, more reps,” Sitwell ordered, guiding his arms to his sides and back up again.

“I don’t see what the big deal is,” Pete said beside him a month after he started walking like a regular human being, plucking a piece of popcorn from the bowl with chopsticks. Wade fumed from across the bed, squeezing a stress ball with one hand and trying to pick up his own popcorn with cheater chopsticks in the other.

“I hate you.”

“You love me.”

Wade decided not to disagree, though he was sorely tempted.

“Your grades are fine, but you’re nowhere near where you need to be to enter the academy,” Phil told him bluntly one afternoon while he did paperwork at the coffee table, thin reading glasses perched on the end of his nose, “You lack experience, training--”

“That’s bullshit!” Wade erupted, forcing Coulson to glance up at him, “I was raised by spies! I’ve been training for this since I was 14! I have more experience saving this city--”

“You have more experience getting your friends and yourself into trouble,” Coulson cut in, “You used to go to a gym twice a week, you’ve never worked well with others, you still don’t have full mobility of your left hand--” Wade hid the offending shake in his pocket, ashamed and put out, “--and you expect to talk me into letting you join an organization so dark most people think it’s a myth?”

Wade looked at the floor, then back at Coulson, trying to mimic his hard stare, “I’ve been through more hell--”

“Than most people will face in their lifetime,” Coulson dropped his pen on his paperwork, sitting back on the couch, “Wade, the amount of stress your body has been through would be too much for the most seasoned Agent.”

“It wasn’t too much for you,” he accused.

Coulson’s lips thinned, “Our experiences are vastly different.”

“You still died!” Wade said, “You were dead for _weeks_ , Coulson! Dad nearly killed himself working on the dig trying to repent for that! I mean, you had to grow a whole new _heart_ , man!”

“And you had to grow a heart, a liver and half your colon,” Coulson replied, “I might have been dead longer, but the amount of damage your body went through was…” 

Coulson took a breath and Wade took his chance, “And I want to be worth it. SHIELD literally put me back together, I owe them my life.”

“Strong words.”

Wade whipped his head around to his father, wiping his hands on a dish towel. His stomach plummeted. This was not the conversation he wanted his dad to hear.

“You owe SHIELD nothing,” Coulson said, “Least of all your life.”

Wade didn’t know how to how to respond. He _did_ owe SHIELD his life. He didn’t know what they did to him, but he was live because of it. _Coulson_ was alive because of it. Why couldn’t they see that had to mean _something_?

“This is what I want to do,” he finally said, keeping his voice steady, looking first at his father, then Coulson, “I want to help people. I want to protect those who can’t protect themselves.”

“Then join the Army,” Clint said, now leaning on the arm of the couch.

“No, I want to do all that with _SHIELD_ ,” Wade felt like a broken record, but Coulson spoke up, “Your father’s right, Wade. If you really want to do this, if you really want to join, then the best way to go about it is the military. It will give you the skills you’re currently lacking and a structured avenue for us to view your progress.”

Wade blinked, completely caught off guard, “What?”

“This is what you want, right? I mean,” Clint looked from Phil to his son for confirmation, “Have I been misinterpreting the last few months? Sitwell has some explaining to do if he’s been giving me an earful for nothing.”

“No!” Wade reached like he was going to physically swat the idea out of the air, then pulled back, “No, no, this is what I want.”

“Good,” Clint stood back up straight, “Then join the Army.”

“I’m not joining the Army.”

“Why not?” Clint asked, “I was in the Army.”

“So was I,” Coulson added, “So was Cap.”

Wade grimaced at the very thought of joining that legacy, “I’ll join the Marines.”

Clint and Coulson both gave each other a look, but didn’t say a thing against it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BONUS CHAPTER


	28. Age:19, Two Years Later

Clint cracked his eyes open at the feel of a body curled next to his. He looked over to Phil, still too thin in his opinion, but so much stronger than the day so many months ago when he’d walk out of SHIELD’s hospital. He heard the knocking next, a steady wrapping on his bedroom door he couldn’t quite place.

“Dad!” Wade knocked again, “Phil! Come on, Aunt Tasha made breakfast!”

Phil grunted somewhere close to Clint’s shoulder, “You think Bruce helped her?”

“Hey now,” Clint nudged him lightly with a smile, “She’s getting better.”

“Hm,” Phil sat up slowly, sliding from the bed and pointing himself toward the shower, “Give me ten minutes.”

Clint rolled off the other side, pulling on a pair of sweats before opening the door to his son, dressed in black slacks, a white short sleeved button up and shined black boots. A SHIELD trainee if Clint had ever seen one. Clint could help his smile and had no qualms burying his son in a bear hug, which was whole heartedly returned.

“Okay, okay, you’re messing up my look,” Wade finally pulled away, dusting his shirt.

Clint snorted, crossing his arms and leaning against the door jam, “Buddy, if you think that’s your biggest problem…”

“For the next five hours it will be,” Phil said behind him, straightening his tie and looking Wade over. Wade straightened, letting them both take him in. 

Phil finally nodded, “I heard there was breakfast. Lead the way.”

Wade turned smartly on his heel and Clint barked at the formality, “Who knew he only needed boot camp?”

“He’s been in boot camp since he was 14,” Phil replied, giving Clint a light kiss, “What he needed was a reason.”

Clint leaned in for one more peck before ducking back into the bedroom to shower and change. Today felt different. So different from the rest of his life. He pulled on his tac suit like he had almost every day for the past seven years, grabbed the case that held his bow, his sidearm, his wallet and keys by the photo that used to be stuffed in a locker, but now sat framed on the corner of his nightstand, right next to the one of him and Wade at Fire Island close to a decade ago. 

He took the elevator to the common floor where everyone was eating breakfast, Thor and Steve trying to outpace each other, Tony barely touching his eggs for his tablet, Bruce laughing at some expansive story Wade was telling him and Phil sitting on the end, going through his email while he chewed some toast. Natasha handed him a plate of completely edible food, which Clint appreciated. Sam Wilson, their newest addition, stood to the side, giving Clint a nod.

Clint nodded back, looking the room over again, just soaking it in. His heart felt full in a way it hadn’t in a long time, if ever, and he figured that was what made today feel special. Otherwise it was nothing new: he, Natasha, and Phil were going on an extended mission, the Avengers were technically on call, though this specific day was supposed to be devoted to “Team Building” which Clint was thankful to avoid and his son…

Well. Wade Winston Wilson ne Barton was entering SHIELD’s training academy after successfully completing Marine Basic Training not four months prior. He was a star, apparently. A little wet behind the ears, and rough around the edges, definitely the youngest in his class, but hey: it wasn’t every year Fury got a recruit who already had the knowledge and skill for urban warfare. As much as it made Clint uncomfortable, he understood his son’s strengths. What an asset he would be to SHIELD. 

Clint was coming to terms with it, slowly but surely.

Thirty minutes later they left for SHIELD, taking a black company car Phil had acquired just for the occasion. Phil pulled into the hangar where their deployment was waiting as well as Wade’s transport to the Academy. Clint watched Agents and recruits alike gawk as Wade stepped out of the car and from an outsider’s perspective, he guessed he couldn’t blame them: Wade had been through hell and his body showed it. He still couldn’t fully grow hair so he mostly stayed bald, his scalp was pockmarked, and his birthmark looked more like a burn than ever. He’d even stopped wearing his dentures during Basic, making his smile look eerily corpse like. He still didn’t have nails on most of his fingers. As a person, Clint could understand how terrifying this young man looked. As a father, he wanted to beat the shit out of every single person staring at his son. As an Agent…

Well. As an Agent he wanted to see exactly how good this Wade Wilson kid was going to be. 

The agency, after all, had very high hopes for him.

Wade pulled his bag out of the trunk, hiking it over his shoulder with a smile, “Welp,” he said looked around the hangar, almost giddy, “I guess that’s my ride.”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself, Buddy, this won’t be a cakewalk,” Clint warned, crossing his arms.

“Ya stavlyu khoroshiye nozhi v sumke na vsyakiy sluchay, Malyutka,” Natasha said.

Clint frowned, “Why does he need the good knives?”

“Because I wouldn’t let her pack any of his other gear,” Phil said, not looking up from his phone.

Natasha was the first to reach out, sending all the nearby Agents into high alert when she gave Wade a hug, whispering something in his ear before pulling away. Phil put out his hand, shaking Wade’s with a small proud smile _just_ brushing his lips. Clint, of course, wrapped his son in a hug, clapping him on the back.

“I want you to know,” he said quietly, “I am _so_ proud of you.”

“Aw shucks, Pop,” Wade joked when Clint held him at arm’s length, “I love you too.”

“Hey,” Clint gave him a shake, then fixed his collar, “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

Phil quietly groaned as Wade’s face lit up. He pulled his bag higher on his shoulder and walked off. Clint’s heart swelled again, and as they made their way to their own plane, he considered his luck, his team, his family. 

And he was more than happy to start a new chapter.

+_+

 

Well, son, I’ll tell you:  
Life for me ain’t been no crystal stair.  
It’s had tacks in it,  
And splinters,  
And boards torn up,  
And places with no carpet on the floor—  
Bare.  
But all the time  
I’se been a-climbin’ on,  
And reachin’ landin’s,  
And turnin’ corners,  
And sometimes goin’ in the dark  
Where there ain’t been no light.  
So boy, don’t you turn back.  
Don’t you set down on the steps  
’Cause you finds it’s kinder hard.  
Don’t you fall now—  
For I’se still goin’, honey,  
I’se still climbin’,  
And life for me ain’t been no crystal stair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Congratulations! You've reached the last chapter! That's it! It's done! There is no more! The poem is what ultimately inspired the title! it's called Mother to Son by Langston Hughes! I thought it was fitting but maybe it's totally shit I don't know! This entire idea was inspired by me walking behind a dude would couldn't've been over 21 on a college campus with his backpack over one shoulder and his son's thomas the tank engine backpack on the other while said little boy held his hand and told him about his day! It was too adorable and for some god knows reason it turned into this! Happy day! Now if you'll excuse me I have a degree to finish!
> 
> I love you all! Thank you so much for coming on this journey with me!
> 
> Til next time~


End file.
